dW:D  "LISLE 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


A  PAINTER  OF 
SOULS 

BY 

DAVID  LISLE 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Miss  TOM  AND  PARTY 

NOT  FORGETTING 

THE  House  of  Ghouls 

I  DEDICATE 
THIS  BOOK,  WITHOUT  PERMISSION, 

^  D.  L, 


2111 61 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


CHAPTER  I 

PRINCESS  BORIZOFF  had  elected  to  spend  the  autumn 
in  Rome,  and,  in  the  early  days  of  a  delicious  October, 
her  beauty,  entertainments  and  extravagances  occupied  the 
attention  of  Society — black,  white  and  grey. 

On  the  Pincian,  not  far  from  the  Villa  Borghese,  the 
gardens  of  the  Villa  Borizoff  spread  themselves  over  the 
famous  Hill  of  Flowers  of  the  Caesars.  The  property,  which 
had  been  purchased  from  an  impoverished  Roman  family  by 
a  Borizoff  Prince  of  a  past  generation,  possessed  historic 
interest,  the  marble  loggia,  recently  added  by  the  present 
owner,  covering  ground  which  had  once  formed  part  of  the 
gardens  of  Lucullus;  fatal  gardens,  since  Valerius  Asiaticus 
lost  his  life  because  of  his  refusal  to  deliver  them  up  to 
Messalina. 

On  the  Pincian — so  runs  the  legend — the  restless  spirit  of 
the  woman  whose  fame  is  infamous  wanders  to  and  fro  over 
the  ground  she  had,  in  life,  fiercely  coveted;  but  certain 
members  of  the  black"  world  professed  themselves  surprised 
to  find  her  bust,  resting  on  a  pillar  encircled  with  scarlet 
passion  flowers,  in  the  loggia  of  the  Villa  Borizoff.  Cardinal 
Santanini,  Camerlingo  of  the  Pope  and  personal  friend  of  the 
Princess,  had,  on  one  occasion,  softly  expostulated,  but 
the  reply,  accompanied  by  a  bewildering  smile,  was  baffling. 
"  But,  your  Eminence,  it  really  is  her  right !  She  made  merry 
in  these  gardens  before  any  member  of  the  Borizoff  house 
was  born.  It  is  our  habit  to  make  her  name  the  synonym  of 
feminine  vice,  but  is  it  not  true  that  she  lived  in  the  days 
I 


2 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


when  the  spoken  words  of  the  Divine  Nazarene  were  still 
ringing  in  the  ears  of  many?  Nearly  two  thousand  years 
have  come  and  gone  since  then,  but  do  you  really  think  that 
vice  has  been  disarmed  by  virtue  ?  Have  we  now  no  Messa- 
linas  in  our  salons  ?  "  The  Cardinal  had  bowed  his  stately  old 
head  in  deprecating  silence.  He  liked  and  admired  the 
beautiful  woman  who  was  the  intimate  friend  of  his  favourite 
niece,  but  in  his  heart  he  feared  her  delicately-veiled  irony. 
He  was  a  Prince  of  the  Church  and  a  very  important 
personage,  but,  notwithstanding  his  sixty  odd  years  and  the 
amethyst  ring  on  the  third  finger  of  his  right  hand,  he  realized 
that  it  was  not  always  profitable  to  argue  with  her.  She  had 
a  special  talent  for  uncovering  the  weak  point,  if  one  existed, 
in  the  armour  of  an  adversary. 

Alexander  Borizoff,  the  original  purchaser  of  the  villa,  had 
been  a  man  of  autocratic  will  and  somewhat  bizarre  taste. 
His  imagination,  stimulated  by  histories  of  the  past  and  sup- 
ported by  great  wealth,  had  tempted  him  to  give  form  to 
extravagant  ideas.  He  had  made  the  house  luxurious  to  the 
point  of  exaggeration,  and  had  filled  it  with  works  of  art  which 
roused  the  envy  of  connoisseurs. 

The  bedroom  he  had  occupied  was  hung  with  magnificent 
silken  tapestries  which  had  once  been  the  property  of  Gian 
Andrea  Doria,  and  in  a  small  octagonal  room  leading  off  it 
an  exquisite  Eros  of  Praxiteles  was  enshrined ;  the  only  other 
object  in  the  silent  chamber  being  a  Greek  vase  of  strange 
design  which  had  been  taken  from  an  Etruscan  tomb  in  the 
dead  city  of  Vulci.  The  present  owner  was  a  woman  of  fine  taste 
and  she  frankly  detested  the  state  reception  rooms,  with  their 
walls  of  gleaming  gold  and  their  carved  ceilings  inset  with 
ivory  and  tortoise-shell,  but  she  acknowledged  the  fascination 
of  the  much-talked-of  baths,  constructed  on  the  plan  of  those 
owned  by  Petronius  Arbiter,  and  took  genuine  delight  in  the 
picture  galleries  which  stretched  away  from  the  house  at  the 
back :  long,  low  rooms  —  with  walls  of  grey-green  canvas, 
bordered  by  a  frieze  of  black  and  white  marbles,  and  floors 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


3 


of  mosaics — which  contained  marbles  that  had  taken  shape 
under  the  hands  of  Angelo,  and  precious  specimens  of  the  art 
of  Sandro  Botticelli,  Lippi,  Raphael  and  others.  In  a  small 
room  at  the  far  end  of  the  galleries  there  were  some  fine 
frescoes  by  Melozzo  da  Forli  and — hung  side  by  side — a 
Madonna  by  Cimabue  and  an  admirable  copy  of  Giotto's 
"  Death  of  Saint  Francis." 

In  the  galleries  there  were  many  palms  and  giant  ferns 
in  pots  of  burnished  copper,  the  mosaic  floors  were  dotted 
with  Persian  rugs,  and  even  in  the  autumn  days  the  windows 
giving  on  the  gardens  were  almost  always  open  for  the  whole 
house  was  heated  to  20  degrees  Reaumur.  Its  owner  loved 
an  atmosphere  warm,  fresh,  and  flower-scented.  She  ridiculed 
the  warnings  of  physicians  and  friends  who  assured  her  that 
no  one  could  live  in  a  hot-house  and  hope  to  preserve  health. 

My  dear  friends,''  she  said,  "how  like  you  are  to  placid 
sheep.  Someone  jingles  a  wether  bell  and  you  all  trot  along, 
without  question.  How  very  stupid  m.ust  have  been  the 
someone  who  attached  wings  to  the  assertion  that  there  is 
something  salutary  about  conditions  which  leave  a  human 
being  half  roasted  and  half  frozen  in  a  hermetically  sealed 
room  ?  For  surely  it  cannot  be  denied  that  open  fires  heat 
nothing  except  the  imagination.  From  the  scenic  point  of 
view  they  are  admirable  but  otherwise — ?  " 

The  Princess  was  not  a  sentimental  woman  but  she  was 
capable  of  friendship  and  she  cherished  real  affection  for  two 
members  of  her  own  sex.  One  of  these  was  the  Duchessa 
della  Rocca,  whose  mother  was  Cardinal  Santanini's  sister, 
and  the  other  the  Hon.  Mrs  Charles  Waring,  a  pretty 
and  sufficiently  wealthy  widow  of  English  and  Irish  parent- 
age. As  girls  the  three  friends  had  been  educated  at  the 
SacrS  Coeur  at  Paris  and  in  the  high-walled  gardens  of  the 
convent,  while  demurely  pacing  up  and  down  they  had 
exchanged  vows  of  eternal  friendship. 

At  least  once  in  each  year  the  Princess  came  to  Rome 
to  see  Bianca  della  Rocca,  whose  family  ties  did  not  permit 


4 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


her  to  travel,  and  when  it  was  possible  Clio  Waring  made  a 
point  of  visiting  the  Eternal  City  at  the  same  time.  The 
Villa  Borizoff  and  the  Palazzo  della  Rocca  were  always  open 
to  her,  but  this  autumn  she  had  elected  to  play  the  role  of 
free  lance.  Some  friends  were  installed  at  the  Grand,  and, 
in  spite  of  expostulations,  she  had  joined  them.  The  Princess, 
merciless  in  raillery,  had  more  than  once  suggested,  with 
obvious  meaning,  that  she  provided  her  guests  with  latch 
keys,  but  Clio  held  her  ground  bravely. 

Nevertheless  she  v/as  constantly  at  the  villa,  and  on  a 
certain  afternoon  early  in  October  she  was  sitting  in  one  of 
the  smaller  salons,  smoking  a  cigarette  as  she  dreamily 
watched  the  flaming  pine  logs  on  the  open  hearth  and  noted 
their  reflection  on  the  waxen  pallor  of  some  tall  lilies  standing 
close  by  in  a  vase  of  dark  ware  which  bore  on  its  base  the 
golden  seal  of  Chojiro. 

On  the  terrace  rays  of  sunshine  streamed  like  golden  rain 
through  the  interstices  of  trellised  rose  walks  and  gave 
semblance  of  life  to  a  marble  amorino  holding  aloft  a  great 
lily  in  a  fountain  framed  with  ivy.  Through  the  open 
windows  came  a  faint  perfume  of  white  jasmine,  and  on  the 
still  air  the  twitter  of  birds  floated  up  from  the  elms  by  the 
lake.  It  was  the  hour  of  Vespers  and  a  soft  radiance  from 
the  west  flooded  the  room,  bringing  with  it  an  impression 
of  infinite  calm.  A  web  of  fire  and  mist,  gleaming  and 
iridescent,  crept  in  and  caressed  Clio  Waring's  bright  hair 
as  she  lay  back  in  a  big  arm-chair ;  there  was  a  suggestion 
of  dreams  in  her  half-closed  eyes. 

She  was  very  charming  —  in  face,  figure,  manner,  little 
ways,  everything.  One  of  those  exceptional  women  who, 
not  French,  can  wear  Paris  clothes  with  the  subtle  grace 
of  a  Parisienne.  She  was  chic  from  the  crown  of  her  dainty 
head  to  the  rounded  toe  of  her  American  shoe,  but  no  one 
could  have  ventured  to  describe  her  as  smart."  Her  hair, 
nut-brown  and  naturally  wavy,  grew  deliciously  on  her 
forehead,  and  her  eyes,  darker  than  the  hair,  were  by  turns, 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


5 


and  at  discretion,  mischievous,  caressing,  inquisitive  and 
politely  insolent.  She  was  rather  tall  but  her  figure  was  so 
svelte  and  girlish  that  people — especially  men,  and  in  their 
thoughts  —  considered  her  small.  She  had  hands  which 
proclaimed  race,  a  mouth  specially  made  for  kisses,  and  a 
temper. 

And  as  she  watched,  through  a  veil  of  dark  lashes,  the 
woman  who  was  her  intimate  friend  something  irritated  the 
delicate  fibres  of  that  temper  and  set  them  vibrating. 

Clio  was  free  from  jealousy  as  a  daughter  of  Eve  could 
hope  to  be,  but  there  were  moments,  and  this  happened  to 
be  one  of  them,  when  the  personality  of  Gabrielle  Borizoff 
filled  her  with  something  like  resentment. 

In  just  what  did  it  consist — the  matchless  charm  that 
defied  imitation,  the  distinction,  envied  by  queens,  that 
never  failed  to  impress  itself  on  men  and  women  alike? 
Other  women  might  purchase  the  same  wonderful  dresses, 
or  something  very  like  them :  create  the  same  luxurious 
environments :  become  owners  of  the  same  superb  jewels. 
It  was  even  possible  that  other  women  might  possess  equal 
beauty  of  feature.    And  yet  —  who  could  hope  to  rival  her? 

Cho  impatiently  flicked  off  a  cigarette  ash  as  a  door 
opened  softly.  The  setting  sun  was  still  brilliant  and  all  the 
long  French  windows  were  wide  open,  but  servants,  in  the 
black  and  white  liveries  of  the  Borizoff  house,  entered  with 
silver  lamps  shaded  in  pale  rose  silk ;  a  table  laden  with 
silver  and  with  rare  old  Satsuma  of  Tangen  design  was  placed 
by  the  side  of  the  chaise-longue  on  which  the  Princess  was 
lying. 

At  the  tinkle  of  tea-cups  she  opened  her  dark  eyes  and 
smiled. 

"  Have  I  been  asleep  ?  "  she  asked  apologetically. 
Clio  nodded. 

Pretending,"  she  said  as  she  threw  aside  her  cigarette 
and  critically  examined  the  cake  plates. 

Her  hostess  drew  the  folds  of  her  tea-gown  of  Venetian 


6 


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guipure  and  Mechlin  more  closely  about  her  and  bent 
forward  to  take  some  pale  roses  from  a  bowl.  She  fastened 
them  in  the  laces  at  her  breast  and  stifled  a  yawn  as  she 
pushed  back  her  dark  hair  from  her  forehead.  She  was 
feeling  pleasantly  tired  after  a  long  ride  in  the  Campagna. 
Fresh  winds  blowing  in  from  Frascati  had  tinged  with  faint 
coral  the  whiteness  of  the  skin  and  she  was  looking  very 
lovely. 

While  resting  on  the  satin  cushions  of  her  lounge  she 
had  been  lazily  contemplating  the  garlands  of  roses  which 
formed  the  frieze  of  her  favourite  sitting-room.  A  famous 
painter  had  signed  the  work :  it  was  a  marvel  of  grace  and 
in  perfect  harmony  with  the  ivory  walls,  but  it  seemed  to 
her,  just  then,  that  the  single  blossoms  which  here  and  there 
broke  away  from  their  companions  were  too  strong  in  tone. 
She  fancied  it  might  be  worth  while  to  have  the  room  freshly 
decorated.  She  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the  cup  of  tea 
Clio  had  poured  out,  but  even  as  she  took  it  she  glanced 
again  at  the  loose  roses. 

"Does  that  Irish  friend  of  yours  paint  flowers?"  she 
asked. 

Mrs  Waring  put  down  her  cup  abruptly. 
"What  friend?" 
"  Mr  Miles  Bering." 

"  My  dear  Gabrielle  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  What 
flowers  ?    And  why  ?  " 

The  Princess  laughed  a  little  maliciously. 

"You  consider  flower  painting  beneath  the  notice  of 
this  wonderful  young  man?  But  really,  quite  admirable 
artists  have  deigned  to  paint  them  !  Latour,  for  example, 
and — others." 

The  ready  colour  mounted  to  Clio's  face.  She  was 
sensitive  of  ridicule. 

"Of  course,  I  know  all  that;  but  what  flowers  did  you 
mean  when  you  spoke  of  Miles  Bering?" 

"Roses."     Eloquent  fingers  rich  in  milk-white  pearls 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


7 


and  gleaming  diamonds  indicated  the  top  of  the  room. 
Mrs  Waring's  brown  eyes,  wide  open  and  amazed,  flashed 
upwards. 

You  want  Miles  Dering  to  paint  a  frieze?" 

The  tone  of  resentment  was  so  unmistakable  that  the 
Princess  laughed  again. 
I  asked  if  he  could." 

There  was  silence  while  Clio^s  expressive  eyes  examined 
the  face  of  the  woman  in  the  lounge  chair.  She  was  asking 
herself  whether  this  wonderful  friend  of  hers  was  really  great, 
from  the  point  of  view  of  intelligence,  or  whether  she  had 
been  so  thoroughly  spoiled  by  unlimited  wealth  and  blind 
worship  that  she  found  it  possible  to  make  an  autocratic 
belief  in  herself  seem  great? 

They  had  long  been  the  best  of  friends,  but  Clio  divined 
that  she  had  never  penetrated  very  far  behind  the  dazzling 
veil  which  spread  itself  before  the  subtle  personality  of  the 
Princess.  Bianca  della  Rocca  she  warmly  liked  and  under- 
stood :  Gabrielle  Borizoff  she  warmly  admired  and  did  not 
understand.  The  nature  of  the  threads  which  bound  her 
to  these  companions  of  her  school-days  lay  revealed. 

At  last  she  said : 

"Look  here,  Gabrielle — don't  you  think  you  make  a 
mistake  when  you  insistently  belittle  people?  There  really 
is  such  a  thing  as  genius,  and  there  really  are  people  in  the 
world  who  are  not  at  all  ordinary.  Miles  Dering,  for  example. 
He's  a  tremendous  sort  of  person  and  it's  absurd  to  try  and 
drag  him  down  to  the  level  of  the  painter  men  one  meets 
here,  who  make  everything  and  everyone  look  pretty  and 
ordinary." 

Princess  Borizoff  had  an  adorable  mouth  and  at  that 
moment  it  accepted  an  invasion  of  mischievous  curves. 
Her  dark  eyes  gleamed  as  she  folded  her  arms  behind  her 
head  and  lay  back  against  the  cushions. 

**I  like  to  make  you,  what  that  nice  little  boy  Tuke 
calls,  *  shirty ' !     I  have  not  the  least  idea  what  the  word 


8 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


actually  means,  but  I  know  it  represents  you  at  this  moment. 
Your  English  language  is  wonderfully  expressive/' 

"I  never  heard  the  word.  And  may  I  ask  what 
Captain  Tuke  has  to  do  with  what  I  have  been 
saying?" 

"  Nothing  —  except  that  he  has  supplied  me  with  a 
mysteriously  expressive  little  word !  You  are  ^  shirty  *  about 
my  suggestion  that  perhaps — it  was  only  perhaps,  you  will 
remember — Mr  Bering  might,  if  he  would,  and  if  I  invited 
him,  rearrange  my  frieze.  You  think  I  have  *  belittled ' 
him,  but  why?  Bouguereau  painted  the  cupids  on  the  walls 
of  one  of  the  salons,  and  Baudry  did  not  think  it  beneath 
his  dignity  to  decorate  the  staircase.  These  men  have 
certainly  painted  'pretty'  things,  but  they  have  done  them 
very  well  and  their  names  are  not  unknown?  " 

**Yes,  I  know/'  Clio  stopped  short  and  a  flood  of 
colour,  ever  ready,  rushed  into  her  cheeks.  She  was  free 
from  nervousness  as  a  street  gamin,  but  Gabrielle  Borizoff 
had  the  power  to  disconcert  her.  "I  want  you  to  meet 
Miles  Bering,''  she  went  on  quickly.  I  believe  you  would 
like  him  and  you  have  so  much  influence  over  people  you 
could,  if  you  would  take  the  trouble,  do  him  no  end 
of  good." 

^'^Good'?" 

"  Well,  I  mean  in  a  practical  sort  of  way.    You  could, 
for  example,  make  him  see  that  it's  necessary  to  take  people 
as  he  finds  them  and  to  make  money." 
Boes  he  profess  to  despise  money?" 

There  was  disdain  in  the  languid  tone  and  Clio  was 
again  on  the  defensive. 

*'0f  course  not,  but  he  has  curious  ideas  and  people 
don't  understand  them.  I  Uke  him  immensely  and  I  like 
his  sister.  I  want  him  to  make  a  big  success  and  to  make 
people  acknowledge  that  he  is  a  genius." 

The  Princess  smiled. 
Genius  is  a  big  word.    It  does  not  often  represent 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


9 


happiness,  but  perhaps  your  friend  possesses  something  of  its 
spirit.    Almost  I  think  it  may  be  so." 
"  But  you  have  never  seen  him  ? 

"No.  But  I  have  seen  something  he  has  painted.  It 
will  interest  you  and  we  must  speak  of  it  later,  but  now  tell 
me  what  is  dancing  about  in  that  excitable  brain  of  yours  .'^ 
You  want  me  to  do  something — what  is  it  ? 

"  I  want  you  to  make  Miles  Bering  wish  to  paint  your 
portrait." 

"Wish  to  paint  it?  But  he  will  certainly  *wishM  As 
certainly  as  I  shall  not  wish  to  have  it  done.  I  am  quite 
willing  to  do  what  I  can  for  anyone  in  whom  you  are  interested, 
but  I  really  could  not  submit  to  having  my  portrait  painted 
by  an  artist  who  goes  in  for  being  eccentric.  I  have  a 
horror  of  the  young  men  who  exhibit  at  the  Salon  des 
Independants,^^ 

"Why  do  you  suppose  that  Miles  Bering  exhibits  at  the 
Independants  ?  " 

"I  do  not  suppose  it.  I  do  not  'suppose'  anything 
about  the  man,  but  you  yourself  admit  that  he  is  'extra- 
ordinary,' and  Carlo  Lucci  gave  me  an  amusing  description 
of  his  portrait  of  Br  Boyenbert.  I  am  convinced  he  is  clever, 
but  these  young  artists  often  express  themselves  in  an 
eccentric  manner  before  settling  down  into  their  right  places. 
I  very  much  dislike  having  my  portrait  painted,  even  by 
artists  whose  work  I  admire,  and  an  eccentric  portrait  would 
make  me  the  young  man's  enemy." 

"Oh — if  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  him  !  " 

"But  I  have  not.  On  the  contrary  I  am  quite  willing 
to  make  his  acquaintance.  If  you  care  to  take  the  trouble 
you  may  tell  him  to  come  to  my  loge  at  the  Costanzi  to-night. 
I  suppose,  since  he  meets  with  your  approval,  he  does  not 
affect  an  artistic  style  of  dress?  Decollete^  with  a  large  tie, 
or  anything  of  that  sort."  The  suggestion  was  greeted  with 
insolent  laughter. 


10 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


He  is  not  the  accepted  Quartier  Latin  type,  if  you  mean 
that.    His  father  commanded  the  17th  Lancers." 

"Irrelevant  but  I  am  sure  conclusive.  I  have  some 
knowledge  of  English  shibboleth.  Your  manner  of  making 
the  statement  reminds  me  of  dear  old  Lady  Egerton's 
*  people.'  When  I  was  staying  with  her  at  Fenton-Wold  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  eloquent 
words  in  the  English  language.  When  anyone's  name  was 
mentioned  she  simply  said,  *my  people  know  him'  or  'none 
of  my  people  know  his,  or  her,  people,'  and  the  social  position 
of  the  person  named  was  indicated — finally.  Just  at  first  I 
expressed  an  opinion  that  even  *  people '  might  be  individual, 
and  that  it  was  not,  perhaps,  safe  to  place  such  absolute 
dependence  on  the  magic  word,  but  she  simply  smiled  at  me 
deliciously  and  said — '  My  dear  Princess,  of  course  you  cannot 
understand.  You  are  very,  very  clever,  but  then  you  are  a 
foreigner ' ! " 

Clio  laughed.    Then  she  said  thoughtfully  : 
"  I'll  send  him  round  a  note.    It  will  be  rather  interesting 
— if  he  comes.    The  de  Brissac  party  will  certainly  be  there." 
Interesting?  " 

"Yes,  because  I  fancy  Miles  Bering,  who  is  the  most 
difficil  of  men,  has  fallen  a  victim,  more  or  less,  to  the 
fascinations  of  that  extraordinarily  pretty  girl  who  is  staying 
with  Madame  de  Brissac.  It's  not  a  serious  affair,  of  course, 
for  Violet  Hilliard,  lovely  though  she  is,  would  be  the  last 
person  likely  to  attract  him,  really^  but  he  is  going  to  paint 
her  portrait  and  I  am  curious  to  see  them  together." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  have  an  opportunity  to-night 
for  I  certainly  shall  not  invite  Madame  de  Brissac  into  my 
loger 

"  But  you  receive  her  ?  " 

"When  I  receive  tout  le  monde.  I  think  her  type  deplor- 
able, but  Henri  de  Brissac's  sister  has  always  been  intimate 
with  my  family,  and  even  with  me,  and  it  is  absurd  to  exhibit 
more  loyalty  than  the  King.    Henri  de  Brissac  has  elected 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


II 


to  accept — a  great  many  things,  Serge  Platoff  amongst  others, 
et  que  voulez  vous  ?  Bianca  is  beginning  to  get  nervous.  I 
had  a  note  from  her  this  morning  in  which  she  asks  whether 
she  ought  to  include  the  de  Brissac  party  in  the  invitations 
to  her  next  reception." 

"  And  your  answer  ?  " 
Just  what  I  have  said  to  you.  The  comfort  of  society 
is  based  on  the  unwritten  law  that  what  the  husband  does  not 
resent  does  not  exist.  I  object  to  Madame  de  Brissac  because 
I  find  that  everything  she  does  or  says  is  in  bad  taste,  but  every- 
one receives  her — so  far.  Just  what  may  happen  if  she  does 
not  take  the  trouble  to  conciliate  PlatofPs  sister  remains  to  be 
seen.  Nadine  spent  part  of  last  winter  at  the  Villa  Platoff, 
when  her  brother  was  entertaining  Madame  de  Brissac,  and 
since  then  she  has — said  things." 

"  She  is  stupid — the  de  Brissac  woman." 

"No.    She  is  ignorant." 

"But  her  people  are  all  right." 

The  Princess  leaned  back  against  the  cushions  and  smiled 
maliciously. 

"  Even  you  cannot  escape  from  the  tentacles  of  shibboleth  ! 
I  know  very  little  about  her  *  people,'  but  she  herself  seems 
to  me  deplorable,  as  a  type,  and  Serge  Platoff's  admiration 
for  her  proves  that  atavism  is  becoming  impotent.  An 
ancestor  of  his,  the  founder  of  his  house,  was  a  favourite  of 
the  great  Catherine.  He  was  of  those  who  had  influence 
over  her  and  if  he  had  lived  he  would  probably  have  become 
more  famous,  or  infamous,  than  Potomkin.  The  Empress 
was  not  at  all  a  '  moral '  woman,  but  her  manners,  for  the 
time  in  which  she  lived,  were  excellent  and  she  knew  how  to 
make  herself  feared.  She  did  that  which  pleased  her,  and  I 
do  not  defend  her  conduct,  but  she  never  condescended  to 
play  the  role  of  an  artist  of  the  theatres  for  the  purpose  of 
attracting  attention.  She  commanded  attention  and  accepted 
it  when  it  pleased  her." 

Clio  assented   vaguely;   her  imagination  was  at  work. 


12  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Gabrielle  Borizoff  was  also  of  those  who  knew  how  to 
command  attention  and  admiration,  and  what  did  it  profit 
her?  Men  had  loved  her  to  the  point  of  madness,  but  had 
their  love  brought  her  any  special  gratification?  Had  she 
ever  cared  for  any  one  of  them  ? 

She  was  a  woman  of  subtle  charm.  The  greatest  of 
modern  poets  once  said  of  her — "  Princess  Borizoff  possesses 
a  fascination  which  can  only  be  apprehended  slowly — under- 
standingly:  as  the  fascination  of  an  illusive,  decadent 
perfume." 

Her  life  had  flowered  early  and  richly.  She  had  always 
been  beautiful,  autocratic,  adored. 

For  her  husband  she  had  felt  nothing  more  than  friendly 
indifierence :  he  had  never  been  permitted  to  interfere  with 
her  life.  She  had  not  disliked  him  but  his  death  had 
brought  her  something  of  relief.  She  was,  and  always 
had  been,  a  law  to  herself.  She  had  never  realized  the 
possibility  of  a  human  influence  entering  into  her  life — 
appreciably. 

She  looked  lovely,  even  to  the  eyes  of  another  woman,  as 
she  lay  back  against  the  ivory  satin  cushions  in  that  delicious 
room,  where  draperies  and  furniture  coverings  were  all  in 
shades  of  white,  where  the  carpet  was  leaf  green,  and  where 
silver  gleamed  at  every  point.  Only  on  the  walls,  with  their 
borders  of  falling  roses  and  on  the  shrouded  lamps,  was  there 
a  touch  of  colour.  Even  the  roses  and  jasmine  and  lilies  of 
the  valley,  massed  together  in  low,  silver  bowls  on  the  tables, 
were  white  or  cream  or  ivory. 

It  was  the  favourite  room  of  a  woman  who  understood  her 
possibilities.  To  women  of  lesser  or  different  beauty  those 
ivory  draperies  must  have  proved  disastrous,  but  for  Gabrielle 
Borizoff  they  formed  an  ideal  frame. 

Her  skin  was  flawless  and  her  eyes,  dark  and  mysterious  as 
a  midnight  sky,  gave  such  brilliancy  to  her  face  that  no  back- 
ground of  vivid  colour  was  needed. 

Mrs  Waring  remained  silent  quite  a  long  time  and  then, 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


13 


with  a  gesture  suggestive  of  impatience,  she  glanced  at  a  little 
jewelled  watch  on  her  chatelaine. 

"  It  is  getting  late/'  she  said;  then  added  inconsequently  : 
"  Mr  Underwood  said  he  would  call  for  me.  He  was  to  be 
at  the  Villa  Borghese  this  afternoon  with  some  people." 

The  Princess  smiled. 
I  like  very  much  your  big  American  friend ;  I  am  glad 
he  is  going  to  call  to-day.    His  face  is  hard  and  rather 
stern,  but  he  is  attractive.    You  are  thinking  of  marrying 
him  ?  " 

Clio  flushed  up. 

"  My  dear  Gabrielle  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Mr  Under- 
wood is  a  married  man." 

'^Justementl  Mais  a  quoi  bon  parler  de  tout  ga  si  tu  es 
pince  ?  " 

^ Pince^  ?    But  how  ridiculous.    When  did  you  begin  to 
adopt  the  slang  of  the  Boulevards  ?  " 
The  Princess  laughed  maliciously. 

"  It  may  be  slang  but  I  think  it  is  true.    I  have  seen  you 
together  and  I  am  not  unobservant." 
"  But  he  is  married." 

"  Yes.    But  in  that  wonderful  country  of  his  they  arrange 
such  things  very  easily  and  then — you  are  only  half  a  Catholic 
I  do  not  think  it  would  give  you  much  pain  to  return  to  the 
faith  of  your  mother  ?  " 

Clio  looked  distinctly  annoyed. 

"  It  is  quite  possible  to  be  great  friends  with  a  man  with- 
out wanting  to  marry  him." 

"  Quite  !  But  then  the  possible  does  not  always  run  with 
the  actual,  and  it  is  with  the  actual  that  we  are  concerned.  Of 
course  I  do  not  countenance  divorce,  but  I  cannot  help 
seeing  that  this  American  is  very  intelligent  and  that  he  looks 
like  a  man !  I  very  much  prefer  him  to  that  pretty  boy  of 
yours  who  is  helping  to  uphold  the  Union  Jack  at  the  British 
Embassy." 

Captain  Tuke  is  not  a  boy.    He  is  twenty-six.    And  I 


14 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


don't  see  why  you  should  speak  of  him  as  *  pretty/  He  is 
remarkably  handsome.    Everyone  says  so." 

"Yes?  Well,  not  quite  everyone,  since  I  think  him 
merely  pretty  !  But  that  is  of  no  consequence.  Mr  Under- 
wood is  coming  to  call  for  you  and  I  have  something  I  want 
to  show  you  before  he  arrives." 

She  struck  a  silver  gong  and  gave  a  brief  command  in 
Russian. 

A  moment  later  two  servants  entered  carrying  a  large 
picture  on  an  easel.  The  Princess  indicated  where  it  was  to 
be  placed  and  then  led  Clio  towards  it. 

An  immense,  panel-shaped  canvas,  dark,  mysterious  and 
impressive.  There  was  a  midnight  sky  of  subtle,  transparent 
blackness,  pierced  by  a  single  glittering  star ;  and  there  was  a 
snow-covered  plain  across  which  streamed  a  confused  mass  of 
humanity. 

The  countless  figures  were  scarcely  outlined.  They  seemed 
to  melt  into  the  background,  yet  they  conveyed  an  impression 
of  dogged  strength  held  in  leash. 

Upward  and  onward  they  blindly  forced  their  way — to- 
wards the  star,  towards  light. 

In  the  foreground,  a  little  removed  from  the  surging 
figures,  there  was  an  old  Russian  peasant.  His  knotted  hands 
were  clenched  over  his  breast,  and  with  patient  eagerness  his 
sightless  eyes  turned  towards  the  star. 

The  picture  gave  an  instant  impression  of  violent  emotion. 
It  seemed  without  colour  and  yet  so  rich  in  vital  colour  that 
the  onlooker  felt  confused. 

Clio  bent  forward  and  eagerly  examined  a  bold  signature 
at  the  right  corner  of  the  canvas. 

"  Miles  Bering  ? she  said  amazedly. 

The  Princess  assented. 

"  Yes.  The  '  Russia '  of  Mr  Bering.  The  picture  which 
has  been  a  great  deal  discussed  in  Paris.  An  old  friend  of 
mine,  a  Russian,  has  sent  it  to  me.'' 

"  It  is  wonderful." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


15 


There  was  something  of  awe  and  very  much  of  pride  in  the 
tone,  and  the  Princess,  ever  a  keen  observer,  thought,  not  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  impulsive  little  widow  could  be  a  very 
valuable  friend.  With  a  gesture  that  was  almost  caressing  she 
laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  It  pleases  me.  We  must  show  it  to  Mr  Underwood.  I 
think  he  also  is  a  friend  of  this  young  painter." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  knows  him  very  well  indeed  and  thinks  no 
end  of  him.  He  will  be  delighted  to  see  the  picture.  He  was 
talking  of  it  only  yesterday." 

At  that  moment  a  door  was  thrown  open  and  a  servant 
announced    Monsieur  James  Underwood.'' 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  Princess  threw  an  amused  glance  at  her  friend's 
flushed  face  as  she  advanced  to  welcome  the  visitor. 
"This  is  charming,"  she  said.    "You  enter  at  a  critical 
moment.    We  were  talking  about  you." 

The  American  bowed  over  the  little  jewelled  hand  in 
courtly  fashion  and  turned  to  greet  Mrs  Waring. 
"  Of  me  ?    May  I  ask  in  what  connection  ?  " 
His  hostess  pointed  to  the  picture. 

"  Mrs  Waring  tells  me  you  are  interested  in  my  country ; 
she  thinks  you  will  like  to  see  this  picture.  It  is  the 
'  Russia '  of  Mr  Bering  of  which  you  must  have  heard  ? 
Perhaps  you  have  already  seen  it  ?  " 

Underwood  walked  quickly  towards  the  easel. 

"  Bering's  ^  Russia  M  "  he  said  eagerly. 

Princess  Borizoff  lay  back  in  her  chair  and  watched 
his  face  as  he  closely  scanned  the  painting.  She  found  him 
attractive,  this  big,  determined  man,  with  the  clean-cut  features 
of  the  Emperor  Hadrian  and  the  all-pervading  air  of 
dominion.  She  had  met  him  several  times  since  his  arrival 
in  Rome  and  had  realized  that  he  was  a  leader  of  men  and 
exceptionally  intelligent.  She  felt  interested  in  him  because 
of  his  qualities  but  still  more  because  of  his  friendship  with 
Clio  Waring.  She  was  sincerely  fond  of  Clio  and  she  knew 
that  the  Hon.  Charles  Waring  had  not  been  a  particularly 
successful  husband.  She  could  not  countenance  divorce 
but  she  realized  that  the  American  would  be  very  good  to 
a  woman — if  he  loved  her. 

Underwood  looked  long  at  the  picture.  Then  he  drew 
a  deep  breath. 

"He  is  a  wonderful  fellow,  Bering.  Something  of  a 
i6 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


17 


genius,  I  believe.  I  am  greatly  interested  to  see  this  picture 
because  only  this  morning  Dr  Doyenbert  was  speaking  to 
me  about  it  and  expressing  regret  that  he  himself  had  not 
purchased  it." 

"You  know  him  well  —  that  terrible  man  who  takes 
delight  in  dissecting  our  poor,  over- worked  nerves?" 

I  know  him.  I  consider  it  unlikely  that  anyone  could 
truthfully  say  they  knew  him  '  well  M  I  met  him  two  years 
ago  with  Rodin,  at  Meudon,  and  since  then  he  has  spent 
a  month  with  me  in  the  Adirondacks.  He  professes  to  be 
grateful  to  me,  or  to  the  mountains,  for  the  cure  of  his  own 
nerves." 

The  Princess  looked  disdainful. 

"I  am  afraid  even  your  beautiful  mountains  could  not 
cure  the  insatiable  curiosity  of  a  neurologist,  and  Dr 
Doyenbert's  nerves,  if  he  really  possesses  any,  are  the 
offspring  of  restless  curiosity.  He  is  a  very  intelligent  man 
and  quite  amusing,  but  if  I  felt  my  nerves  out  of  order  I 
should  not  consult  him.  I  should  prefer  someone  less 
brilliant  and — less  curious  ! " 

Underwood  laughed. 

"Yes,  he  is  'curious'  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  but 
he  is  a  good  fellow  and  his  admiration  for  the  talent  of  the 
man  who  painted  that  picture  is  quite  genuine.  At  the  same 
time  he  very  nearly  fell  out  with  Bering  about  this  *  Russia  \" 

"But  why?    Because  he  sold  it  to  someone  else?" 

Mrs  Waring  was  standing  by  the  tea-table  as  she  spoke. 
Underwood  turned  to  her  and  as  his  keen  grey  eyes  fell  on  the 
radiant  figure  in  white  cloth  and  silken  braids  they  grew  soft 
in  expression.  The  Princess  glanced  from  one  to  the  other 
and  the  ghost  of  a  smile  hovered  about  her  mouth. 

"No,"  he  answered  hesitatingly,  "not  because  he  sold 
it  but  because  he  used  the  money  he  got  for  it  stupidly — 
according  to  Doyenbert." 

"He  has  his  little  extravagances,  then  —  this  wonderful 
young  man  ?  It  is  quite  refreshing  to  hear  that  he  has  some 
2 


i8 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


human  qualities  :  from  what  Mrs  Waring  has  told  me  I  was 
beginning  to  picture  him  amongst  the  supernaturals  ! " 

Underwood  paused.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  debating 
with  himself. 

"Please  do  not  hesitate  unless  the  matter  is  a  secret. 
I  assure  you  I  know  how  to  appreciate  the  vice  of  extra- 
vagance." 

The  American  glanced  round  the  luxurious  room  and 
then  let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  svelte  figure  draped  in  lace 
which,  even  to  his  man's  eyes,  pronounced  itself  priceless. 
At  the  moment  he  looked  almost  boyish,  in  spite  of  his 
forty-eight  years,  and  both  the  women  laughed. 

"You  think  I  have  spoken  the  simple  truth — ^just  once, 
v!est-ce  pas  ?  Well,  reward  my  virtue :  tell  me  about  the 
extravagance  of  Mr  Bering?" 

Underwood  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  He  looked  at  the 
picture  and  then  at  the  beautiful  woman  who  had  become 
possessed  of  it.    At  last  he  said : 

"  There  is  no  secret  in  the  matter,  but  at  the  same  time 
I  do  not  feel  sure  that  I  am  justified  in  speaking  of  it. 
You  do  not,  I  think,  know  Dering,  and  for  that  reason  you 
will  perhaps  find  it  hard  to  understand.  Well,  the  truth  is 
he  gave  away  every  penny  he  got  for  that  picture  to  just 
such  a  Russian  peasant  as  that  indicated  in  the  foreground 
of  the  painting — that  old  blind  man.  The  story  of  the  old 
man's  life  was  a  sad  one  and  it  is  not  necessary  to  relate 
it,  but  the  poor  old  fellow's  son  had  been  mixed  up  in  a 
nihilist  plot  and  was  sent  to  Siberia.  The  old  man  was 
left  alone  with  a  little  grandchild  and  there  were  several 
very  pathetic  circumstances  connected  with  his  life. 
Mechnikoff  told  the  story  in  Bering's  presence,  one  evening, 
in  Paris,  last  spring,  and  it  must  have  made  a  great  im- 
pression, for  Boyenbert  told  me — only  this  morning — that 
the  money  paid  for  *  Russia'  had  found  its  way  back — 
to  Russia.  It  came  out  in  a  roundabout  way,  through 
Mechnikoff,  and  when  Boyenbert  asked   Bering  about  it 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


19 


he  only  smiled.  The  doctor  is  a  man  of  sufficient  courage 
but  he  did  not  care  to  press  the  question  and  he  was  rather 
furious.  You  see  it  was  the  first  sum  of  importance  Bering 
had  ever  received  for  a  picture,  and — he  is  a  very  young 
man." 

Clio  Waring's  expression  of  dismay  was  almost  comical. 

"  Isn't  that  exactly  like  him  ?  "  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 
"  And  you  may  be  sure  he  was  backed  up  by  Jessica,  if  she 
knew  anything  about  it.  Such  dear  angelic  fools !  And  it 
isn't  as  if  they  had  any  money  worth  speaking  of.  I  don't 
suppose  their  uncle  could  have  left  them  more  than  four 
or  five  hundred  a  year  between  them  ?  " 

''Five— I  think." 

Underwood  spoke  rather  sharply.  He  had  been  watching 
the  face  of  the  Princess  and  its  appearance  of  calm  indifference 
irritated  him.  Her  eyes  were  hidden  behind  drooping  fringes 
of  dark  lashes  and,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  she  had  not  been 
moved,  except  to  careless  amusement,  by  the  little  story 
which  had  seemed  to  him  so  fine.  He  rose  and  again 
approached  the  picture.    Princess  Borizoff  looked  up. 

"  Is  this  young  man  a  Socialist,  with  nihilistic  sympathies  ?  " 

''Nihilistic?  Oh,  no — not  that,  but  he  certainly  has 
in  him  the  makings  of  a  reformer.  He  could  hardly  avoid 
that  considering  his  upbringing." 

"Do  the  17th  Lancers  cultivate  Socialism,  then?" 

The  tone  was  so  mischievous  that  Mrs  Waring  bit  her 
lip  in  vexation.  There  were  moments  when  she  found  it 
difficult  to  be  patient  with  her  friend.  She  turned  to  the 
American,  whose  face  expressed  surprise. 

"Madame  Borizoff  was  afraid  Miles  Bering  was  a  pro- 
nounced Quartier  Latin  type,  and  she  had  a  crise  de  nerh 
when  she  realized  that  he  might  present  himself  before  her 
in  a  low  neck  and  big  tie — at  the  Costanzi  to-night !  To 
reassure  her  I  trotted  out  the  possibilities  of  heredity  in 
mentioning  his  father." 

"I  see."   Underwood  smiled  as  he  spoke.    "Well,  I  do 


20 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


not  think  Colonel  Bering  can  be  held  directly  responsible  for 
his  son^s  ideas,  sartorial  or  otherwise.  He  died  when  the  boy 
was  a  mere  child  and  Mrs  Bering  did  not  long  survive  him, 
Miles  and  Jessica  were  brought  up  by  their  uncle — my  old 
friend,  John  Fitzgerald.  I  fancy  Fitzgerald  had  a  horror  of 
his  brother-in-law  for  he  always  spoke  of  him  as  a  betrayer  of 
his  country.  Colonel  Bering  was  a  Protestant,  and,  I  should 
say,  very  bigoted,  while  Fitzgerald  was  a  Catholic  of  the  fine 
old  Irish  type.  He  hated  the  English  and  never  forgave  his 
sister  for  marrying  a  man,  who,  Irish  by  birth,  was  entirely 
English  in  sympathies." 

And  this  uncle  was  your  intimate  friend?  Bid  he  then 
live  in  America  ?  "    The  Princess  seemed  interested  at  last. 

"  He  spent  many  years  in  the  States  but  towards  the  end 
of  his  life  made  his  home  in  Paris.  He  was  a  remarkable 
man :  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  upholders  of  the  Brook 
Farm  theories.  Indeed,  I  believe  that,  very  many  years  ago, 
he  and  Emerson  nearly  fell  out  on  that  subject.  Fitzgerald 
looked  up  to  Emerson  almost  as  if  he  were  a  Bivine  being, 
but  he  never  forgave  him  for  poking  fun  at  the  Brook  Farm 
community.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  do  not  believe  Emerson 
did  poke  fun  at  those  dear  devoted  people,  but  when  Jack 
Fitzgerald  took  hold  of  an  idea  he  worked  it  to  death,  and 
he  had  all  his  countrymen's  horror  of  anything  like  personal 
ridicule." 

But  what  on  earth  is  Brook  Farm  ?    And  surely  Emerson, 
I  suppose  you  mean  the  Emerson,  lived  ages  ago  ? 
Underwood  laughed  outright. 

"Ages  ago — as  you  count  ages,  Mrs  Waring:  and  the 
Brook  Farm  community  broke  up  long  before  you  were  born 
or  thought  of.  Bid  you  never  hear  of  it— really?  Of  that 
ideal  home  of  a  brotherhood  dedicated  to  plain  living  and 
high  thinking  ?  Why,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  worked  there  as 
a  farm  labourer :  Charley  Bana,  who  afterwards  edited  the 
New  York  Sun,  waited  at  the  dinner-table :  Father  Thomas 
Hecker,  the  founder  of  the  Paulist  Order,  baked  bread,  and 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


21 


George  Curtis  chopped  faggots.  It  was  a  wonderful  community, 
I  can  tell  you,  and  when  Jack  Fitzgerald,  then  a  very  young 
man,  joined  it,  he  was  bubbling  over  with  enthusiasm.  In 
fact  he  remained  an  enthusiast  to  his  last  day,  and  not  long 
before  his  death  he  spoke  to  me  of  the  aims  and  ambitions  of 
the  original  Brook  Farmers.  'We  were  banded  together,' he 
said,  '  in  order  more  effectually  to  promote  the  great  purposes 
of  human  culture.  To  establish  the  external  relations  of  life 
on  a  basis  of  wisdom  and  purity.  To  apply  the  principles  of 
justice  and  love  to  our  social  organization  in  accordance  with 
the  laws  of  Divine  Providence.'  He  said  much  more  but  I 
have  forgotten  the  words,  though  the  sense  remains  with  me. 
It  was  a  great  ideal  and  Emerson  was  in  sympathy  with  it, 
even  though  he  so  hopelessly  offended  Fitzgerald  by  his  sly 
hits  at  some  of  the  members.  Fitzgerald  died  in  full  faith  of 
the  ideal,  and  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  thought  so  highly  of  the 
scheme  that  he  made  it  the  heart  of  his  Blithedale  Romance, 
Long  after  Brook  Farm  was  deserted  and  the  community 
scattered  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth,  Hawthorne  one  day 
said  to  a  friend — 'The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  convinced 
do  I  become  that  at  Brook  Farm  we  were  in  touch  with  truth. 
We  have,  some  of  us,  let  it  go  by,  but  posterity  may  dig  it  up 
and  profit  by  it.' " 

The  Princess  was  looking  puzzled. 

**But  when  you  speak  of  Hawthorne,  do  you  mean  the 
man  who  wrote  the  Scarlet  Letter  1  Do  you  mean  that  he 
actually  worked  in  the  fields  as  a  labourer?" 

"  Yes,  indeed.  Princess — as  an  ordinary  labourer.  Every 
member  had  certain  work  portioned  out  to  him  and  it  had 
to  be  well  done.  Hawthorne  was  devoted  to  the  farm  and  I 
believe  the  happiest  days  of  his  life  were  passed  there.  It 
was  a  tremendously  jovial  community  and  one  of  its  most 
interesting  members  was  Dering's  uncle.  Fitzgerald  was  crazy 
on  the  subject  of  education,  mental  and  physical,  and  he  was 
the  Maitre  d^Armes  of  the  farm.  In  after  years  he  gave  free 
rein  to  his  fads  when  young  Dering  came  under  his  care.  He 


22  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


brought  him  up  as  a  true  son  of  the  community  and  I  have 
often  thought  that  one  of  the  most  interesting  mementoes  the 
world  now  possesses  of  the  famous  'plain  living  and  high 
thinking '  scheme  is — Miles  Bering !  " 

He  must  be  interesting — this  painter.  I  have  just  asked 
Mrs  Waring  to  let  him  know  that  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him 
in  my  loge  at  the  Costanzi  to-night.  You  are  coming — 
of  course?  You  have  not  forgotten  that  I  have  invited 
you  to  see  Duse?"  Underwood  shook  his  head  very 
decidedly. 

*'You  may  be  sure  I  have  not  forgotten.  I  am  looking 
forward  with  keen  pleasure  to  this  evening.  I  should  enjoy 
visiting  your  loge  in  any  circumstances,  but  it  so  happens  that 
I  have  never  seen  Gioconda^  and  of  course  with  Eleonora 
Duse  it  will  be  at  its  best." 

Just  then  Mrs  Waring  again  glanced  at  her  watch :  she 
uttered  a  little  cry  of  surprise. 

*'How  late  it  is!  and  I  have  fifty  things  to  do  before 
dinner ! " 

She  caught  up  her  hat  and  hastily  crossed  the  room. 
Underwood's  eyes  looked  admiringly  at  the  radiant  figure  as 
he  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  out.  Then  he  came 
back  and  joined  his  hostess  who  was  now  standing  by  an  open 
French  window. 

''You  have  a  lovely  home  here,  Princess,"  he  said. 
"Though  the  Villa  Borizoff  is  not  one  of  the  regular  show 
places  I  think  it  is  more  talked  about  than  any  of  the  famous 
villas  or  Palazzos  of  Rome.  One  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  ask  you 
to  let  me  see  the  marble  loggia  which  I  understand  you  have 
erected  ?  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  it  and  Mrs  Waring 
tells  me  that  just  now  it  is  a  marvel  of  beauty,  with  roses 
climbing  round  the  pillars." 

Gabrielle  Borizoff  assented  with  a  charming  smile,  but 
her  thoughts  seemed  occupied.  For  some  moments  she  was 
silent ;  then  she  said  : 

"  What  effect,  generally  speaking,  has  that  curious  bringing- 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  23 


up  had  upon  Mr  Bering  ?  I  should  like  to  know  a  little  more 
about  him,  if  the  subject  does  not  bore  you  ?  " 

"Quite  the  contrary."    Underwood  spoke  with  decision 
and  his  stern  face  grew  wonderfully  kindly.    "I  like  Miles 
Bering  very  much  and  I  find  him  interesting,  but  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  give  you  any  idea,  in  a  few  words,  of  the  effect  of 
his  uncle's  method  of  education.    To  understand  Bering  you 
ought  to  have  known  the  uncle  and  you  could  never  have 
understood  the  uncle  unless  you  knew  a  good  deal  about  the 
Irish  people.    Jack  Fitzgerald  was  one  of  the  best  fellows  that 
ever  lived,  but  undoubtedly,  from  a  worldly  point  of  view,  he 
was  a  crank ;  and  he  brought  the  lad  up  with  the  views  of  a 
crank.    That  is  to  say,  with  views  that  do  not  belong  to  this 
work-a  day  world.    Added  to  this,  Bering  is  something  of  a 
genius.    Given  his  upbringing  and  his  exceptional  talent  it  is 
not  surprising  that  he  should  be  out  of  the  ordinary." 
But  in  what  way — especially?  " 
"Well,  he  is  a  man  whose  thoughts  do  not  travel  on 
ordinary  lines.    He  is  tremendously  straight  himself  and  he 
cannot  realize,  unless  absolutely  forced  to  do  so,  that  other 
people  are  sometimes  crooked.    Big  things,  big  sacrifices, 
big  ideals,  seem  so  natural  to  him  that  he  does  not  understand 
the  little  meannesses  of  life.    I  suppose  the  fact  of  the  matter 
is  he  is  exceptionally  natural,  in  the  finest  sense  of  the  word, 
and  that  we  of  the  world  are  so  naturally  unnatural  that  he 
seems  eccentric !    He  studied  under  Carriere  and  was  his 
chosen  friend,  so  far  as  a  mere  lad  could  be  the  friend  of  such 
an  extraordinary  genius,  and  that  explains  a  good  deal,  if  you 
happen  to  know  anything  of  Carriere's  life  and  work?" 
The  Princess  bent  her  head  in  silent  assent. 
For  quite  a  long  time  the  two  remained  silent  and  Under- 
wood's keen  eyes  took  in,  with  appreciation,  the  broad  terraces 
and  sloping  alleys,  bordered  with  laurels  and  with  spindle 
trees,  which  led  down  to  the  orange  grove  and  rose  gardens. 

More  than  one  wealthy  American  had  spent  huge  sums  in  an 
attempt  to  reproduce  the  marble  fountains  of  the  lower  terrace, 


24  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


with  their  great  banks  of  mantling  ivy  and  their  background 
of  parasol  pines  and  spreading  trees  of  red-gold  oranges  and 
oval  lemons  of  pale  gold. 

It  was  an  enchanted  spot  and  the  beautiful  woman  in  the 
clinging  draperies  of  soft  laces  seemed  to  belong  to  it — as  by 
divine  right.  Underwood  looked  at  her  stealthily  as  she 
remained  lost  in  thought.  He  considered  her  one  of  the  most 
lovely  women  he  had  ever  seen,  but  her  beauty  had  not  the 
power  to  stir  his  pulses.  He  admired  her  as  one  might 
admire  an  exquisite  statue,  but  his  heart  throbbed  suddenly 
and  a  tremor  passed  through  the  nerves  of  his  strong  white 
hands  as  a  faint  scent  of  violets  and  tea-roses  filled  the  air 
and  a  rustle  of  silken  linings  proclaimed  the  return  of  Clio 
Waring. 

The  woman  of  the  caressing  brown  eyes  and  haunting 
little  ways  had  crept  into  the  secret  chambers  of  his  heart  and 
had  taken  possession. 

At  first,  but  that  was  many  months  ago,  he  had  been 
merely  amused  and  interested  by  her  brilliant  chatter.  Then 
he  had  found  himself  missing  her,  more  than  he  cared  to 
realize.  And  then  the  certainty  that  he  loved  her  had  come 
as  something  of  a  shock.  He  was  a  man  who  had  always 
given  high  rank  to  honour.  He  was  no  longer  young  and  he 
was  married.  It  was  true  that  his  wife  did  not  care  for  him 
at  all,  that  she  was  unfaithful,  but  still  he  had  married  her 
and  he  had,  more  than  once,  and  in  public,  spoken  strongly 
against  the  divorce  laws  of  his  country.  It  was,  he  told  him- 
self, true  that  circumstances  sometimes  altered  cases,  but 
principle  is  principle.  In  his  heart  he  found  reason  to 
believe  that  he  might,  perhaps,  be  able  to  overcome  the 
impulsive  little  Irishwoman's  religious  scruples  on  the  subject. 
She  had,  it  was  true,  been  brought  up  a  Catholic,  but  her 
mother  had  remained  to  the  last  a  Protestant  of  narrow 
views,  and  Clio  did  not  take  her  religious  duties  very 
seriously. 

Underwood  was  a  practical  hard-headed  man,  but  of 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  25 


recent  days  he  had  permitted  himself  to  drift,  and,  at  times, 
to  dream. 

He  loved  Rome — that  grand  old  City  which  had  so  richly- 
coloured  history.  And  how  great  was  the  pleasure  he  ex- 
perienced in  wandering  here  and  there  with  the  woman  he  had 
learned  to  love.  How  delicious  the  mornings  passed  in  picture 
galleries,  historic  churches  or  romantic,  half-deserted  gardens  ? 

He  had  never  spoken  to  Clio  of  his  love,  and  so  long  as  he 
could  remain  silent  the  position  seemed  possible. 

After  all,  a  golden  month  stolen  from  the  grasp  of  Time 
was  a  treasure  of  price.  He  was  happy  in  the  immediate 
moment,  and  in  his  strenuous  life  happiness,  of  this  kind, 
had  not  often  fallen  to  his  lot. 


CHAPTER  III 


HE  scene  at  the  Teatro  Costanzi  was  very  brilliant.  It 


X  was  a  gala  performance  for  the  victims  of  a  recent 
earthquake  and  Duse  was  playing  in  the  Gioconda  I 

The  boxes  were  filled  with  beautiful  women  famous  in 
Roman  society,  and  in  the  stalls  there  were  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men  and  women  of  varied  nationalities. 

The  dresses  were  exquisite,  the  show  of  jewels  exceptionally 
fine,  and  the  air  of  the  theatre  seemed  charged  with  magnet- 
ism. The  Italians,  especially  the  Romans,  scorn  the  idea  of 
going  to  bed  before  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  and  lest 
the  curtain  should  fall  too  early  on  the  final  act  of  a  play, 
they  have  inaugurated  a  system  of  abnormally  protracted 
entr'actes^  during  which  they  pay  lengthy  visits  to  the  boxes 
of  their  friends.  At  the  Opera  and  at  such  theatres  as  the 
Costanzi,  regular  receptions  are  held  in  the  different  boxes 
between  the  acts. 

When  Princess  Borizoft  entered  with  Mrs  Waring  every 
head  was  turned  towards  her  loge  for  she  was  the  most  talked 
about  woman  in  Rome  that  season :  envied,  admired  and 
very  generally  feared. 

For  a  moment  or  two  she  stood  in  front  of  the  box  and 
surveyed  the  house,  supremely  indifferent  to  the  many  opera- 
glasses  directed  towards  her.  She  was  wearing  a  gown  of 
silken  muslins,  in  tones  of  flesh-pink,  ivory  and  silver; 
mysterious  as  the  seven  veils  which  cover  the  soul.  The 
fragile  stuffs  were  weighed  down  by  crystal  fringes  and 
embroideries  and,  quivering  at  her  breast,  there  was  a  great 
butterfly  of  silver  filigree  thickly  incrusted  with  diamonds. 
Two  ropes  of  pearls  encircled  her  throat  and  fell  far  below 
her  waist,  and  her  dark  hair  was  carelessly  wound  round  her 
classic  head. 


26 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


27 


A  sound  of  voices  made  her  turn  towards  the  back  of  the 
box  and  she  sank  into  her  seat  as  Underwood  came  forward 
and  presented  a  tall,  dark  man. 

"  Mr  Bering  ?  "  she  said,  as  she  extended  her  hand.  I 
am  pleased  to  meet  you." 

Miles  Bering  bent  low  and  kissed  the  slender  hand,  gloved 
in  ivory  suede,  and  as  he  did  so  the  Princess  looked  up  and 
encountered  a  mocking  glance  from  Mrs  Waring.  She  smiled 
and  her  lips  formed  rather  than  uttered  the  words  mea 
culpa." 

The  well-groomed  man  with  the  courtly  manner  was  far 
removed  from  the  Quartier  Latin  type  she  had  suggested. 

Mrs  Waring  looked  triumphant,  but  at  that  moment  the 
curtain  went  up  and  all  eyes  were  turned  towards  the 
stage. 

Gabrielle  Borizoff  was  a  warm  admirer  of  Eleonora  Buse, 
and  for  the  subtleties  of  d'Annunzio  she  felt  keen  apprecia- 
tion ;  but  she  had  seen  the  play  many  times  and  more  than 
once,  during  the  first  act,  she  permitted  her  attention  to 
wander  towards  the  young  painter.  He  was  unexpected  and 
therefore  interesting. 

Opinions  differed  with  regard  to  Miles  Bering's  appearance. 

Some  people  considered  him  very  handsome  :  others  were 
content  to  pronounce  him  distinguished  :  Englishmen,  as  a 
rule,  dubbed  him  foreign  looking. 

He  was  tall  and  slightly  built  and  his  easy  movements 
betrayed  the  athlete  just  as  his  unconscious  play  of  the  wrist 
betrayed  the  practised  swordsman.  His  hair  was  dark  brown, 
with  a  slight  wave  at  the  temples,  and  his  finely-chiselled 
features  were  bronzed  as  those  of  a  southern  Italian.  Indeed 
in  type  he  was  almost  Roman  :  he  might  have  been  the  son, 
or  brother,  of  some  of  the  dark-haired  men  thronging  the 
boxes. 

He  had  good  features  and  a  particularly  well -shaped 
mouth,  but  in  describing  him  most  people  spoke  first  of  his 
eyes  which  were  very  dark  and  framed  in  level  brows.  They 


28  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


were  handsome  eyes  so  far  as  shape  and  colour  were  concerned, 
but  what  made  them  remarkable  was  their  expression. 

Without  staring,  Bering  had  a  way  of  looking  at  people  as 
though  he  were  reading  their  thoughts. 

A  great  French  philosopher  once  said  of  him — "  //  voit  le 
nu  du  caractere  comme  celui  des  corps and  it  was  true. 

People  found  the  painter's  eyes  attractive  or  disconcerting, 
according  to  circumstances,  and  once,  when  their  quiet  glance 
swept  her  face  and  figure,  the  Princess  felt  puzzled :  was  their 
expression  insolent  or  contemplative  or — politely  indifferent  ? 

She  turned  her  attention  to  the  stage  but  a  slight  move- 
ment made  her  look  up  and  she  saw  that  Bering  had  risen  to 
salute  someone  on  the  other  side  of  the  theatre.  Almost 
unconsciously  she  followed  in  the  track  of  his  eyes.  Three 
persons  had  just  entered  a  box  and  two  of  them  she  knew  to 
be  the  Comtesse  de  Brissac  and  Prince  Platoff :  the  third  was  a 
girl  of  such  remarkable  appearance  that  she  found  her  attention 
riveted.  It  was  not  so  much  the  beauty  of  feature  that 
attracted  her,  though  that  was  present  in  a  marked  degree,  but 
there  was  something  about  the  girl's  whole  personality  that  set 
her  apart.  She  was  like  an  exotic  plant  which  had  taken  root, 
with  a  good  will,  in  English  soil  but  which,  nevertheless, 
remained  mysterious  and  illusive.  The  type  was  English  and 
yet — in  some  subtle  way  the  girl  recalled  the  land  of  the 
pomegranate :  she  had  the  traditional  complexion  of  cream 
and  roses,  but  her  lips  were  softly  crimson  as  the  heart  of  a 
poinsettia,  and  her  hair,  a  pale,  gold  frame  for  a  broad  and  very 
white  forehead,  gave  out  metallic  gleams  in  certain  lights. 

Gabrielle  Borizoff  was  a  genuine  admirer  of  beauty,  and  her 
own  unquestioned  sovereignty  raised  her  above  the  level  of 
petty  disparagements,  but  the  thought  flashed  across  her  mind 
that  the  girl's  strange  beauty  owed  something  to  art !  A 
moment  later  she  withdrew  the  mental  accusation,  her  keen 
eyes  recognizing  that  it  was  Nature  :  Nature  in  the  guise  of  a 
subtle  orchid  but  none  the  less  Nature. 

The  play  had  ceased  to  interest  her  and  unconsciously  she 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


continued  to  look  at  the  face  of  the  girl  in  the  opposite  box  : 
and  as  she  looked  Violet  Hilliard's  eyes  met  hers  in  a  full  and, 
so  it  seemed,  resentful  gaze. 

The  girl  was  dressed  in  white  :  draperies  of  ivory  crepe 
wound  themselves  about  the  slender  form  which  still  possessed 
something  of  the  pathetic  grace  of  adolescence.  She  was  very 
tall,  with  the  willowy  grace  of  a  youth  wedded  to  the  soft 
roundness  of  a  feminine  thing.  Her  eyes,  far  apart  and  violet 
in  colour,  seemed,  in  joyous  moods,  like  summer  stars,  full  of 
delicious  light.  The  cream  of  her  skin  melted  into  pale  rose 
over  the  delicately-rounded  cheeks  and  grew  snow-white  at 
the  beautiful  throat,  flat  as  that  of  a  young  child,  and  in  shape 
a  most  dainty  column.  Her  eyelashes  and  brows  were  dark 
and  it  was  these  in  conjunction  with  the  pale,  gold  hair  that 
gave  the  instant  impression  of  artifice.  She  was,  perhaps, 
twenty-two  :  possibly  twenty-four.  It  was  difficult  to  decide 
definitely. 

When  the  Princess  recognized  the  vague  resentment  in  the 
girl's  look  she  smiled  slightly  and  turned  towards  Bering.  At 
the  same  moment  the  man  in  the  opposite  box  spoke  and  the 
girl  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed.  Someone  in  the 
audience  gave  an  indignant  "sh-sh-sh — It  was  a 
miniature  comedy  and  Gabrielle  was  almost  surprised  to  find 
that  Bering's  face  was  absolutely  calm.  He  was  watching  the 
stage  attentively,  but  when  the  curtain  fell  he  turned  at  once 
to  his  hostess. 

"  You  are  a  great  admirer  of  d'Annunzio,  Madame  ? '' 
he  asked. 

"Yes — and  no.  He  is  a  master  of  words  and  he  has 
revived  the  glories  of  the  Italian  language,  but  I  find  it  difficult 
to  forgive  him  //  Fuoco.    It  was  so  needlessly  cruel." 

"  Perhaps  ?    But  it  is  his  masterpiece." 

Mrs  Waring  and  Underwood  were  talking  at  the  back  of 
the  box  and  the  Princess  felt,  for  the  moment,  alone  with  the 
painter.  A  sudden  impulse  made  her  break  the  ice  and  plunge 
into  something  like  intimacy. 


30 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  I  am  surprised !  Mrs  Waring  has  spoken  to  me  of  you. 
I  did  not  expect  you  to  sympathize  with  d'Annunzio's  treat- 
ment of  love.''  She  laid  a  slight  stress  on  the  personal 
pronoun  and  Bering  looked  at  her  questioningly. 

"  *  Love '  ?  But  he  doesn't  treat  of  it.  I  believe  he  knows 
nothing  about  it." 

"  D'Annunzio  ?  " 

Bering  nodded. 

"  Nothing ! " 

There  was  a  pause.    Then  the  woman  laughed  softly. 

"I  wish  he  could  hear  you.  You  deny  him  knowledge 
of  the  emotion  of  which  he  is  high  priest  and  autocratic 
guardian  ?  The  emotion  he  has  dissected  and  discussed  and 
explained  over  and  over  again.  If  he  does  not  under- 
stand love,  where  can  we  seek  for  the  source  of  his 
inspiration  ?  " 

You  are  of  opinion  that  *  I  love  '  and  ^Je  suis  amoroureux ' 
are  synonymous  phrases  ?  " 

Perhaps  not — quite."  The  Princess  laughed  again. 
**But— ?" 

Just  that,  I  assure  you.  The  high  priest  of  Amour  asks 
*What  can  I  receive?  What  fresh  sensation  can  I  ex- 
perience ?  What  can  I  take  ? '  Love  simply  asks  ^  what  can 
I  give?'" 

"  But  not  always  ?  " 

'^Always!" 

The  dark  eyes  met  and  crossed  foils.  The  woman  was 
smiHng  a  little  cynically;  the  man  was  also  smiling,  but  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  read  his  thoughts.  At  that 
moment  Mrs  Waring  made  a  diversion. 

"Gabrielle — Mr  Underwood  refuses  to  believe  that  you 
ridicule  the  idea  of  happy  marriages." 

The  American  came  to  the  front  of  the  box. 

only  said  that  I  felt  sure  you  would  agree  with  me 
in  thinking  the  holy  estate  of  matrimony  an  excellent 
institution." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


31 


"  Most  excellent.  The  best  of  all  institutions  for  keeping 
two  persons  from  caring  too  much  for  each  other." 

"  Is  not  that  rather  an  original  notion?  " 

"  A  sensible  one,  I  think.    It  is  fatal  to  idealize." 

Dering  laughed  right  out  and  at  the  moment  the  Princess 
became  conscious  that  he  was  very  young  for  his  years.  The 
laugh  was  fresh  and  spontaneous.  Underwood  rested  his 
hand  on  the  painter's  shoulder  and  looked  down  at  the  dark 
face. 

"  Here  is  a  fellow  who  believes  in  ideals  if  ever  anyone 
did.  Come  now,  Dering,  have  you  nothing  to  say  in  support 
of  my  theory  that  marriage  is  really  an  excellent  institution, 
when  the  right  halves  join  hands." 

"  You  want  me  to  war  with  the  air !  Your  theory  stands 
untouched  :  we  are  all  of  the  same  mind." 

"Not  the  Princess,  I  fear?" 

**0h,  yes.  Madame  Borizoff  is  entirely  on  your  side,  only 
in  her  case  there  might  be  some  difficulty  about  recognition 
on  the  part  of  the  right  halves.  When  people  elect  to  wear 
masks  confusion  becomes  general." 

You  think  I  elect  to  wear  masks?" 

The  question  was  asked  with  some  hauteur  and  Clio 
looked  apprehensive. 

Dering  smiled. 

**Most  women  of  the  world  wear  them,  and  beautiful 
masks  are  admirable  in  their  way  only — they  are  apt  to  cause 
confusion.  For  example,  one  of  your  masks  has  given  Mrs 
Waring  the  impression  that  you  do  not  believe  in  happy 
marriages." 

You  heard  what  I  said  on  that  subject?  " 

*'Yes.  I  heard  what  you  said  and  I  might  have  been 
confused  if  I  had  not  used  my  eyes." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 

As  she  spoke  the  Princess  unconsciously  threw  out  her 
right  hand  from  which  she  had  drawn  a  glove.  Dering  looked 
at  the  delicate  fingers  significantly. 


32 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  Your  mask  derides  ideals  and  yet — you  are  an  idealist. 
Yes" — in  answer  to  a  negative  movement — essentially  and 
above  all,  an  idealist." 

"You  are  skilled  in  character  reading?" 

The  mockery  of  the  tone  missed  its  goal.  Bering  was 
unmoved. 

"Not  at  all.  But  I  know  something  of  the  laws  that 
govern  the  hand." 

His  glance  was  so  significant  that  the  Princess  held  up 
her  ungloved  hand  and  the  others  crowded  round. 

"You  think  I  have  the  hands  of  an  idealist?" 

He  nodded. 

"That,  in  addition  to  many  other  things  but  that,  of  a 
certainty." 

Clio  laughed  gaily. 

"You  are  found  out  at  last,  Gabrielle.  You — the  concen- 
trated essence  of  all  things  cynical  and  critical  and  analytical 
and  all  the  sister  cals !  An  idealist !  Who  would  have 
thought  it  ?  " 

The  Princess  took  no  notice  of  the  mild  banter  :  she  was 
looking  at  her  hand  with  some  curiosity. 
"  You  really  believe  in  palmistry  ?  " 

She  looked  at  the  painter  as  she  asked  the  question  and 
he  smiled. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  only  know  that 
certain  types  of  hands  indicate  the  presence  of  certain  qualities 
and  certain  other  types  certain  other  qualities.  That  much 
cannot  be  denied." 

"  And  from  my  hands  you  judge  me  to  be  an  idealist  ?  " 

"Amongst  other  things." 

"What  else  do  you  see  here?" 

She  held  the  lovely  ungloved  hands  towards  him  with  an 
imperious  gesture  of  command.  The  ghost  of  a  smile  crept 
into  the  corners  of  the  painter's  mouth. 

"I  wonder  if  you  ever  find  it  possible  to  be  *  needlessly 
cruel'?" 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


33 


A  faint  flush  suddenly  rose  to  the  proud  face  and  the 
white  hand  was  withdrawn.  Mrs  Waring  laughed  but 
Underwood  judged  it  best  to  break  in. 

*^The  great  actress  we  have  here  to-night  is  said  to  have 
remarkably  beautiful  hands — is  she  not?  Have  you  ever 
met  her,  Bering  ?  It  would  be  interesting  to  hear  what  you 
think  of  those  hands  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have  met  her.  Her  hands  are  beautiful  but 
terribly  sad:  the  saddest  hands  I've  seen,  I  think,  and  the 
most  tragic.  You  remember  that  they  are  really  the  heroines 
of  this  piece?  It  was  written  for  Duse  and  the  moment  is 
very  fine  when  poor  Silvia,  who  has  lost  her  hands  in  saving 
her  husband's  masterpiece,  stretches  out  her  mutilated  wrists 
in  impotent  desire  to  embrace  the  child." 

The  American  assented.  Just  then  Princess  Borizoff  bent 
her  head  slightly  in  answer  to  the  profound  salutation  of  a 
man  who  was  standing  at  the  front  of  the  opposite  box.  She 
turned  to  Mrs  Waring. 

"Serge  Platoff  has  been  waiting  for  permission  to  come 
over."  Then,  driven  by  some  indefinite  sense  of  irritation, 
she  glanced  at  the  painter. 

"Do  you  know  Prince  Platoff?  He  out-rivals  the  late 
Prince  de  Chic  as  a  patron  of  the  arts.  I  will  present  you. 
One  never  knows  :  he  might  prove  useful." 

The  tone  was  distinctly  patronizing  and  Bering's  face 
grew  stern.  He  rose  from  his  seat  and  stood  erect,  his  dark 
eyes  looking  straight  into  the  smiling  and  rather  insolent 
face  of  his  hostess. 

"You  are  very  kind;  but  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me. 
I  have  no  desire  to  make  Prince  PlatofFs  acquaintance." 

The  reply  was  given  without  emotion  and  the  manner 
in  which  it  was  spoken  was  very  courteous,  but  something  in 
the  level  tones  brought  a  flush  of  anger  to  the  ivory  cheeks 
of  the  Princess.  She  threw  up  her  head  haughtily  and  as 
the  Russian  Prince  entered  she  waved  the  painter  aside.  He 
bowed  and  quietly  left  the  box  with  Underwood.  As  they 
3 


34 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


passed  the  visitor  Bering  continued  his  way  as  if  no  one  was 
there,  and  the  Russian  had  to  make  way.  He  glanced  after 
the  two  men  and  then  came  forward  and  kissed  the  hands 
of  both  women  with  great  empresse7nent. 

This  occasion  is  unique !  It  has  become  possible  for 
me  to  believe — almost  to  believe — that  you  are  not  quite 
perfect,  Madame  Gabrielle !  I  am  confused  and  completely 
disorganized  by  the  idea,  yet  I  think — at  least  I  fear — that 
you  are  too  good-natured." 

As  he  spoke  he  sank  back  in  a  chair  with  an  air  of  nervous 
exhaustion  :  he  was  an  inimitable  actor  and  his  expression  of 
pretended  horror  was  very  amusing. 

Platoff  was  a  remarkable-looking  man  who  attracted 
attention  everywhere  he  went.  Of  moderate  height,  his  figure 
was  slim  and  graceful,  and  his  iron-grey  hair  was  worn  in  the 
style  affected  by  the  late  Prince  de  Sagan,  whose  mantle 
he  was  supposed  to  have  adopted.  His  features  were  small 
and  well-shaped,  but  the  habitual  expression  of  his  face  and 
eyes  was  so  cynical  and  insolent  that  one  hesitated  to  call 
him  attractive.  He  was  immensely  rich,  absolutely  selfish, 
notably  unscrupulous,  and  most  women  considered  his  manner 
fascinating.  Princess  Borizoff  found  him  amusing  and  for 
that  reason  he  was  frequently  at  her  houses :  the  fact  that 
he  had  been  the  relative  and  intimate  friend  of  her  husband 
did  not  influence  her  at  all. 

"You  think  I  am  too  good-natured?  I  seem  to  be  the 
centre  of  discoveries  this  evening.  Only  a  moment  ago  I  was 
told  that  I  had  the  hands  of  a  cruel  idealist." 

"Gabrielle!" 

Clio's  face  expressed  indignation  but  her  friend  paid  no 
attention.  Platoff  rearranged  his  eyeglass,  which  was  attached 
to  a  narrow  ribbon  of  black-watered  silk,  and  his  dark  brows 
assumed  a  satirical  curve. 

"  I  need  not  ask  the  name  of  the  individual  who  invented 
that  distinctly  precious  epithet ;  it  is  typical  of  the  man  !  '  A 
cruel  idealist  ? '    Is  it  not  beautifully  meaningless  and  mean- 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  35 


inglessly  mysterious — ^just  as  are  his  paintings  ?  Just  the  sort 
of  thing  to  make  the  masses  gasp  and  ask,  *What  does  it 
mean  ? '  And  who  is  likely  to  take  the  trouble  to  tell  them 
that  it  means — ^just  nothing?" 

"  But  Mr  Dering  never  said  such  a  thing.  Gabrielle, 
you  know  quite  well  what  he  said.  It  was  nothing  like 
that." 

Platoff  turned  a  comprehensive  glance  on  the  animated 
speaker,  and  as  his  impertinent  eyes  wandered  slowly  from 
her  flushed  face  to  her  white  throat  and  down,  very  slowly,  to 
the  cluster  of  violets  at  her  breast,  Clio  realized  what  Fenton 
Tuke  had  meant  when  he  once  said,  with  boyish  vigour—'*  I 
never  see  that  Russian  chap  looking  at  a  woman  without 
wanting  to  kick  him."  She  drew  herself  up  proudly  and 
looked  straight  across  the  theatre.  Platoff  smiled  slightly  as 
he  caressed  his  drooping  moustache. 

"  Chere  Madame^  I  am  almost  sure  the  young  man  must 
have  said  it — or  something  very  like  it.  It  is  so  entirely  what 
one  would  expect  from  him.  In  his  *  art '  and  in  his  life  he 
is  such  a  terrible  poseur, 

Princess  Borizoff  had  been  watching  Clio's  indignant  face 
with  unconcealed  amusement;  she  was  in  a  mood  to  take 
pleasure  in  seeing  anyone,  even  an  intimate  friend,  discon- 
certed. She  motioned  to  Platoff  to  draw  her  gorgeous  wrap 
of  velvet  and  sable  round  her  shoulders,  and  she  smiled  at  him 
as  she  leaned  back. 

You  accuse  me  of  unnecessary  good-nature.  Why?" 

"Because  you  have  permitted  that  ridiculous  charlatan 
Dering  to  advertise  himself  in  your  loge.  You  are  exquisitely 
considerate  to  persons  of  his  class,  I  know,  but  most  of  these 
fellows  know  their  place,  and  keep  it  more  or  less.  It  was  a 
dangerous  experiment  to  admit  this  man  into  your  presence, 
except  as  a  tradesman ;  it  would  not  be  an  agreeable  experi- 
ence for  you  to  have  to  give  him  a  lesson  in  good  manners. 

Clio's  temper  broke  bounds. 

"Prince   Platoff,  will  you  please  remember  that  Mr 


36 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Dering  is  a  personal  friend  of  mine,  and  one  for  whom  I  have 
the  greatest  admiration  and  regard." 

Platoff  allowed  some  germs  of  admiration  to  show  them- 
selves in  his  brilliant  eyes.  She  certainly  was  pretty — this 
little  woman  who  had  so  often  gone  out  of  her  way  to  be 
disagreeable  to  him.    He  bowed  low  as  if  in  deep  humiliation. 

"  A  thousand  pardons — I  had  no  idea  that  was  the  case. 
I  retract,  inwardly  devour,  every  word  I  have  spoken.  Doubt- 
less, he  is  in  every  respect  admirable,  this  young  painter ;  one 
cannot  place  confidence  in  what  one^s  friends  say  about  a  man 
in  his  position.  At  the  clubs  they  seem  to  think  him  rather  a 
farceur,  but  then  the  fellows  have  only  seen  him  in  the  studios, 
or  the  streets,  or  places  of  that  kind.  It  is  certainly  unfair  to 
form  an  opinion  of  anyone  whom  one  cannot  hope  to  know 
intimately.'' 

The  scarcely-veiled  insolence  of  the  tone  caught  the  atten- 
tion of  the  Princess.  She  had  no  more  consideration  for 
Platoff  s  feelings  than  for  those  of  a  stranger. 

"  You  speak  bitterly.  I  wonder  why  ?  "  The  words  dropped 
slowly  from  the  exquisite  lips,  but  the  satirical  expression  in 
the  dark  eyes  made  the  man  feel  uncomfortable.  "You 
consider  Mr  Dering  a  complete  outsider,  and  he  refuses  to 
have  you  presented  to  him.  It  all  savours  of  mystery  and 
romance.  I  wonder  very  much  what  is  behind  ? 
He  refused  to  be  presented  to  me  ?  " 
Worse  than  that.  He  refused  to  permit  me  to  present 
you  to  him !  " 

Platoff  had  in  his  veins  the  blood  of  men  who  had  ruled 
autocratically.  He  was  one  of  the  proudest  men  in  Europe, 
and  at  that  moment  he  could  have  killed  the  painter.  He 
hesitated ;  then  a  slow,  malicious  smile  curled  his  thin  lips. 

"  I  am  honoured  I  After  all,  this  young  man  possesses 
some  fine  feeling.  He  must  know  that  a  great  many  curious 
things  are  accepted  in  this  strange  old  world  of  ours,  but 
perhaps  he  has  learned  that  there  are  still  some  things  which 
place  a  man  on  the  outer  edge — when  they  become  known.'' 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  37 


Both  women  looked  at  him  in  surprise  and  on  Mrs 
Waring's  face  the  surprise  was  mingled  with  indignation. 
Princess  Borizoff  spoke. 

"  You  know  of  something  in  connection  with  Mr  Bering 
which  necessarily  places  him  *  on  the  outer  edge '  ?  ^' 

Platoflf  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  *  Necessarily '  ?  That  depends  upon  circumstances  and — ■ 
persons.  For  myself,  I  frankly  confess  that  I  should  not  care 
about  knowing,  except  in  the  way  of  business,  the  unacknow- 
ledged son  of  Dr  Doyenbert,  I  may  be  absurdly  old-fashioned 
but  the  fact  remains — I  have  that  feeling/' 

Monsieur,  how  dare  you  say  such  a  thing!  It  is 
absolutely  untrue.  Mr  Bering's  father  was  Colonel  of  the 
17th  Lancers;  he  was  a  very  well-known  man  in  Ireland  and 
a  personal  friend  of  the  King." 

Clio's  sensitive  face  was  aflame  and  she  looked  towards 
her  friend  for  confirmation.  **  Gabrielle,  you  will  not  permit 
such  a  thing  to  be  said  ?    You  know  it  is  untrue." 

Ma  cherie^  I  know  nothing  about  this  young  man  except 
that  he  seems  rather  impertinent  and — but  this  I  consider  the 
fault  of  his  friends — tiresome." 

Platoff  smiled  slightly.  Then  he  turned  to  Mrs 
Waring. 

"  Madame,  I  am  desolate !  I  have  offended  you  again. 
And  really  I  thought  everyone  knew.  Of  course,  the  young 
man  cannot  be  held  responsible  for — a  little  indiscretion,  and 
I  have  heard  my  friend,  Sir  Weston  Hilliard,  say  that  Colonel 
Bering  never  disclaimed  his  son.  I  regret,  more  than  I  can 
express,  my  own  indiscretion  in  having  mentioned  the  matter ; 
I  prostrate  myself  at  your  feet  in  an  agony  of  humiliation  and 
beg  for  permission  to  remove  my  objectionable  person.  One 
looks  for  miracles  when  angels  are  present  but  even  though, 
by  reason  of  miracle,  you  ever  find  it  possible  to  forgive  me  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  bowed  low  over  the  hand  of  the 
Princess ;  when  he  turned  to  Mrs  Waring  she  kept  her  hands 


38 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


clasped  together  and  slightly  bent  her  head.  The  Princess 
looked  up  as  he  turned  to  leave  the  box. 

"  '  Hilliard '  ?  Is  not  that  the  name  of  the  jeune  fille  who 
is  being  introduced  into  Society  this  season  by  Madame  de 
Brissac?  " 

"Yes.  Weston  Hilliard  is  her  father.  I  used  to  know 
him  years  ago  when,  for  my  sins,  I  represented  my  country  in 
London.    A  capital  fellow  :  very  amusing  for  an  Englishman.'' 

Neither  woman  spoke  for  several  moments  but,  just 
before  the  curtain  rose,  Gabrielle  said  : 

"  Of  course  all  this  is,  most  probably,  du  pottn,  but  at  the 
same  time  the  fact  that  such  reports  exist  places  me  in  rather 
an  unpleasant  position,  You  remember  that  this  is  Felipe's 
fite  day  and  that  we  have  promised  Bianca  to  take  supper 
with  them  to-night?  I  had  thought  of  taking  Mr  Underwood 
and  Mr  Bering,  but  now —  " 

"Yes?  Now—?" 

There  was  something  distinctly  antagonistic  in  the  tone 
and  the  Princess  looked  annoyed. 

"Really,  Clio,  you  are  making  yourself  ridiculous  over 
this  painter.  What  is  he?  Who  is  he?  No  one  knows. 
Doyenbert  has  pushed  him  to  the  front,  that  is  certain,  and 
it  is  quite  likely  that  Serge  Platoffs  story  has  foundation.  It 
is  a  matter  of  no  consequence,  but  I  do  not  care  to  personally 
introduce  anyone — whom  I  do  not  really  know." 

The  lame  ending  to  the  sentence  was  a  tribute  to  Clio's 
look  of  open  amusement. 

"You  may  remain  calm,"  she  said  sententiously.  "You 
will  not  have  to  make  yourself  responsible  for  either  Mr 
Underwood  or  Mr  Bering.  They  have  already  been  invited 
by  the  dear  old  Cardinal.  I  think  you  will  find  that  Miles 
Bering  is  quite  at  home  at  the  Palazzo  della  Rocca :  he  dined 
there  twice  last  week." 

Princess  Borizoff  turned  away  without  replying.  She  was 
conscious  of  feeling  displeasure  which  she  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  justify. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


When  Underwood  and  Bering  returned  to  the  box  she 
greeted  them  courteously,  but  it  was  plain  she  did  not  wish  to 
talk.  Even  when  the  piece  was  ended  she  only  permitted 
herself  a  few  cold  words  in  which  to  explain  that  they  would 
all  probably  meet  at  the  house  of  the  Duchessa  della  Rocca. 
Underwood  was  at  her  side  as  she  made  a  sort  of  royal 
progress  from  the  theatre,  with  friends  and  acquaintances  on 
every  side  eager  to  attract  her  attention.  She  was  looking 
superbly  handsome  and  as  she  passed  along,  slowly  and  with 
the  languid  grace  that  became  her  so  well,  a  woman's  voice, 
clear  and  mocking,  cut  the  air  : 

"  Quite  an  uncrowned  Queen — liest-ce  pas  ?  " 

The  Princess  turned  and  looked  at  the  speaker  and  at 
the  same  moment  Platoff,  who  was  in  the  group,  made  a 
profound  salutation.  She  smiled  slightly  and  as  her  eyes 
wandered  carelessly  to  the  tall  girl  standing  by  his  side  she 
was  again  conscious  of  a  certain  resentment  in  the  expression 
of  the  lovely,  wide-apart  eyes.  Her  smile  faded  as  she 
acknowledged  the  salutation  of  the  Comtesse  de  Brissac,  a 
little  further  on,  and  then  she  turned  and  addressed  a  few 
words  to  the  American  at  her  side. 

As  Gabrielle  Borizoff  and  Clio  Waring  drove  from  the 
theatre  to  the  Palazzo  della  "Rocca  they  were  very  silent. 
Clio  was  feeling  angry  and  not  a  little  indignant;  she  did 
not  understand  her  friend's  mood.  Just  as  the  carriage  was 
turning  into  the  street  in  which  the  della  Rocca  house  was 
situated,  she  said  abruptly  : 

*' Gabrielle  —  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  Of  course 
I  understand  that  you're  not  interested  in  Miles  Bering,  but 
at  the  same  time  it's  only  fair  that  you  should  know  that  he 
has  made  an  enemy  of  Prince  Platoff  by  an  action  which 
certainly  tells  in  his  favour.  You  know  the  pretty  singer 
Cantalli  ?  Well,  Platoff  admired  her  enormously  and  wanted 
to  back  her  up,  and  all  that.  The  girl  was  poor  and  there's 
no  knowing  what  might  have  happened  if  Jessica  Bering 
hadn't  interfered.    She's  at  the  head  of  some  society  in  Paris 


40 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


which  goes  in  for  helping  young  artists  in  all  sorts  of  ways, 
and  besides  the  Derings  knew  Nina  Cantalli's  father.  At  any 
rate  they  got  hold  of  the  girl  and  did  no  end  for  her  and  of 
course  Platoff  was  left  out  in  the  cold.  I  fancy  he  and  Miles 
Bering  had  a  regular  row  on  the  subject  and  ever  since  then 
theyVe  hated  each  other.  As  you  saw  to-night  Platoff  never 
misses  an  opportunity  of  doing  the  other  an  injury." 

The  Princess  looked  at  the  speaker  and  smiled ;  the  smile 
was  not  a  pleasant  one. 

"I  wish  I  had  your  capability  for  taking  an  interest 
n  real-life  romances  !  To  you  this  young  man  seems  so 
wonderful,  so  brave  !  A  beautiful  singer,  a  wicked  Russian 
Prince,  a  noble  young  man  who  goes  about  doing  good,  a 
convenient  sister,  a  charitable  society  !  Pure  romance.  It 
is  all  very  wonderful  but  sad  to  say,  not  a  little  tiresome. 
And  besides — it  is  so  difficult  to  believe  in  philanthropy  of 
that  order." 

"  Gabrielle  !  "  Mrs  Waring's  voice  shook  with  indignation 
and  she  stopped  short  to  recover  self-control.  Then  she 
went  on.  **Very  well,  let  us  drop  the  subject.  I  shall  not 
speak  of  Miles  Bering  again." 

Deo  gratias !  I  think  one  would  have  found  the 
Archangel  Gabriel  tiresome  if  he  had  had  such  advocates  as 
you  and  Mr  Underwood  ! " 


CHAPTER  IV 


A THOUGHTFUL  student  can  read  history  in  the 
famous  Palazzos  of  Rome.  Not  alone  in  the  archi- 
tecture and  mural  decorations,  but  in  the  intricate,  present- 
day  parcelling  out  of  rooms  and  floors  and,  in  some  cases, 
whole  palaces. 

In  these  superb  buildings,  many  of  which  cover  as  much 
ground  as  the  Royal  Palaces  of  London  and  Madrid,  one  finds 
the  true  spirit  of  the  Eternal  City.  Ever  since  the  days  of 
Nero  and  the  Golden  House,  the  Romans  have  been  inspired 
by  a  love  of  grandeur  and  regal  magnificence.  They  have, 
when  possible,  done  everything  on  a  gigantic  scale.  In  days 
gone  by  the  great  Palazzos  were  the  homes  of  Princes  of  Royal 
blood  and  Princes  of  the  Church.  Many  of  them  bear  the 
names  of  Popes  who  have  written  their  names  large  across  the 
pages  of  history — Paulus  V.  was  a  Borghese,  Leo  X.  and 
Leo  XI.  belonged  to  the  house  of  Medici,  Paulus  III.  to  that 
of  Farnese,  Urbanus  VIII.  to  that  of  Barberini,  and  so  on. 

One  and  all  the  Palazzos  are  historic,  but  with  Rome  of 
to-day  they  have  little  connection,  except  financially,  for  one 
might  count  upon  the  fingers  of  one  hand  the  names  of  the 
great  families  who  can  afford  to  occupy  the  whole  of  their 
family  mansions.  It  is  sad  but  inevitable.  In  the  present 
state  of  Roman  history  and  Roman  life,  when  a  blast  of  ruin 
has  swept  over  the  patriziato^  what  could  be  done  with  those 
grandiose  galleries  and  noble  halls?  Very  few  indeed  of 
the  Italian  nobility  of  to-day  possess  the  princely  fortunes 
necessary  for  the  upkeep  of  such  establishments.  A  craze 
for  speculation,  in  many  guises,  has  eaten  up  the  remnants 
of  those  fortunes  which  survived  the  devastations  of  enormous 
and  unjust  taxation.     When  necessity  drives  even  proud 

41 


42  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Princes  find  themselves  obliged  to  accept  the  inevitable,  and 
so  it  comes  about  that  in  Rome  of  to-day  the  famous  Palazzos 
are  peopled  by  hordes  of  foreigners,  and  many  of  the  greatest 
families  are  glad  of  the  shelter  of  an  upper  floor  in  the 
ancestral  home.  The  Palazzo  Farnese,  which  was  built  by 
Pope  Paul  III.,  Alessandro  Farnese,  in  the  sixteenth  century^ 
is  the  home  of  the  French  Ambassador  to  the  Quirinal ;  the 
Spanish  Ambassador  to  the  Italian  Court  finds  a  home  on  one 
floor  of  the  Palazzo  Barberini;  in  the  Palazzo  Borghese  a 
dealer  in  antiquities  occupies  the  ground-floor;  the  Palazzos 
Colonna,  Odescalchi,  and  many  others  are  let  in  floors.  In 
Rome,  the  city  of  proud  aristocrats,  the  spirit  of  democracy 
rears  its  head  in  triumph,  for  Princes,  Cardinals,  Ambassadors, 
Bankers  and  art-dealers,  share  the  same  roof  more  often  than 
not. 

But  notwithstanding  ravaged  fortunes  and  altered  circum- 
stances there  still  remain  a  few  old  Roman  families  who  have 
never  accepted  the  gold  of  foreigners  in  return  for  a  saite  of 
rooms  in  the  old  home,  and  amongst  these  Felipe  Lorenzo,  Duca 
della  Rocca,  who  was  also  Principe  Santanini,  was  prominent. 
He  was  by  no  means  a  rich  man — in  fact  for  his  position  he 
was  poor,  but  he  regarded  the  old  home  as  sacred  and  would 
as  soon  have  permitted  his  beautiful  wife  to  sing  in  a  cafe  for 
money  as  have  permitted  a  stranger  to  become  master,  even 
temporarily,  of  a  single  room  in  his  house.  His  uncle, 
Cardinal  Santanini,  occupied  a  suite  of  rooms  on  the  second 
floor,  and  very  many  of  the  great  reception  rooms  were  locked 
up  and  empty  ;  but  the  salons  habitually  used  by  the  Duchessa 
were  hung  with  tapestries  and  comfortably  furnished — as 
comfort  is  understood  in  Italy — and  the  quaint  old  garden  was 
a  ceaseless  delight  to  the  Duca,  who  was  partly  crippled  and 
very  delicate. 

The  room  in  which  supper  was  served  on  the  night  of 
the  gala  performance  at  the  Costanzi  was  comparatively 
small,  and  in  the  soft  light  of  a  huge  lamp,  shrouded  in  pale, 
gold  silk,  which  hung  directly  over  the  large  round  table, 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  43 


it  looked  delightfully  cosy.  The  ceiling  was  very  high,  as 
in  all  Italian  living  rooms,  and  the  walls  were  hung  with 
dark  tapestries  which  showed  faded  tints  of  peacock  greens 
and  blues.  The  frescoes  on  the  ceiling  had  been  executed 
by  a  pupil  of  Michelangelo,  and  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  a  superb  painting,  the  "St  Jerome"  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  was  framed  in  dull  gold  and  hung  low.  Bianca  della 
Rocca  had  just  entered  and  was  talking  eagerly  to  a  priest 
in  a  black  cassock,  bordered  with  red,  who  was  sitting  in 
a  roomy  high-backed  chair.  His  keen  old  face,  framed  in 
white  hair,  soft  and  fine  as  silk,  was  alight  with  amusement, 
and  as  his  finely-shaped  head  was  silhouetted  against  a  dark 
curtain  one  saw  that  the  profile  was  clean  cut  and  very 
remarkable.  The  large  nose  was  thin  and  of  the  pure  Roman 
type,  and  the  firm  lips,  now  colourless,  were  capable  of  great 
sweetness  and  not  a  little  determination.  Cardinal  Santanini 
was  in  many  respects  a  notable  man.  He  had  long  been 
the  close  friend  of  the  Pope ;  and  of  recent  years  he  had  filled 
the  office  of  Papal  Chamberlain  or  Camerlingo.  He  was 
a  man  of  simple  tastes,  of  great  learning  and  of  serene  temper. 
His  niece  by  marriage,  who  adored  him,  said  she  permitted 
him  to  take  snuff  because  she  felt  that  without  one  slight 
vice  he  might  be  tempted  to  emulate  Saint  Francis  and  to 
slowly  rise  from  solid  earth  to  mid-air! 

Bianca  della  Rocca  was  one  of  the  most  charming  of 
women  and  exceedingly  handsome  in  a  subdued  way.  She 
was  tall  and  of  regal  figure,  but  neither  in  dress  nor  manner 
was  she  sensational.  The  Cardinal  declared  that  she 
possessed  the  leading  qualities  of  a  Royal  woman :  she  was 
always  in  the  fashion  but  never  unduly  remarkable. 

The  younger  daughter  of  Marchese  Flavio  Chiaramonte, 
a  hero  of  many  duels,  Bianca  was  of  pure  Roman  descent 
and  she  loved  her  country  with  a  fervour  that  roused  feelings 
of  amazement  in  her  friend,  Gabrielle  Borizoff,  a  shameless 
cosmopoUtan  who  was  keenly  alive  to  the  short-comings 
of  all  countries :  she  was  gentle  in  manner  and  soriiewhat 


44  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


retiring  except  when  with  her  intimate  friends :  her  tastes, 
like  those  of  the  Cardinal,  were  very  simple,  and  she  was 
equally  admirable  as  wife  to  a  chronic  invalid  and  mother 
to  two  handsome  little  sons. 

While  the  Duchessa  was  giving  her  uncle  a  vivid  descrip- 
tion of  some  visitors  she  had  received  that  afternoon  the 
folding  doors  of  an  adjoining  room  were  thrown  open,  and 
a  servant  in  black  livery  slowly  pushed  a  wheel-chair  towards 
the  supper-table.  Bianca  ran  forward  to  greet  her  husband 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  expected  guests  were  announced. 
As  Princess  Borizoff  swept  across  the  room  to  pay  her  respects 
to  the  Cardinal,  Felipe  della  Rocca's  dark,  mournful  eyes 
followed  her  in  wonder.  She  was  his  wife's  intimate  friend 
and  he  himself  had  known  her  for  several  years,  but  he  had 
not  become  accustomed  to  her  beauty.  Each  time  he  saw 
her  enter  a  room  her  insolent  grace  and  matchless  distinction 
came  as  a  revelation.  He  loved  his  wife  truly  and  with  entire 
devotion,  but  he  considered  Gabrielle  the  most  perfectly 
beautiful  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  To-night  she  was  in 
a  curious  mood :  brilliant,  witty  but  at  times  cruel.  As  the 
little  party  gathered  round  the  supper-table  the  Cardinal, 
who  was  eating  nothing,  let  his  keen,  grey  eyes  rest  on  her 
face  and  his  expression  was  interrogative.  She  looked  up, 
met  his  glance,  and  paused  in  a  scathing  criticism  on  the 
manners  of  an  English  beauty  who  had  been  present  at  the 
Gala  and  whose  flirtations  were  attracting  a  good  deal  of 
attention  that  season. 

"Your  Eminence  is  rather  shocked?  You  think  I  am 
unduly  critical?  But  then,  really^  it  is  difficult  for  us  poor 
foreigners  to  understand  the  little  ways  of  the  English 
ieune  fille  1  You  would,  I  know,  have  the  mantle  of  charity 
very  elastic,  but  even  to  elasticity  there  is  a  limit?"  She 
smiled  deprecatingly  and,  as  though  to  change  the  subject 
lightly  touched  one  of  the  lovely  tea-roses  with  which  the 
table  was  decorated.  **What  glorious  roses.  Quite  perfect 
in  shape  and  colour." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  45 


The  Cardinal  glanced  slyly  at  Dering  who  was  engaged 
in  animated  conversation  with  Mrs  Waring  at  the  other  side 
of  the  table. 

"Thanks  to  our  young  friend  over  there.  He  is  largely 
responsible  for  their  perfection." 

"Mr  Dering?"  The  Princess  had  followed  in  the  track 
of  the  grey  eyes. 

"  Yes.    Did  you  not  know  that  he  is  a  famous  gardener  ?  " 

Miles  looked  across  and  caught  the  look  of  amazement 
on  the  scornful  face :  he  laughed  outright. 

"  Your  Eminence  loves  to  jest." 

"  But  I  do  not  understand.  Does  Mr  Dering  grow  such 
roses  as  these  in  a  garden  in  the  Via  Giulia  ?  I  should  not 
have  supposed  such  a  thing  possible  ?  " 

"Oh,  no."  The  Cardinal  folded  his  delicate  hands  and 
prepared  to  enjoy  himself.  "He  is  not,  as  yet,  a  master- 
gardener,  with  a  garden  of  his  own.  He  is  just  a  good  honest 
employi  who  earns  fair  wages  and  who  is,  I  think,  allowed 
to  take  his  breakfast  on  the  premises  of  his  employer.  I 
have  stated  the  case  correctly,  have  I  not,  Mr  Dering  ?  " 

"  Quite  correctly,  your  Eminence." 

Dering  was  very  human  and  he  was  conscious  of  feeling 
pleasure  when  he  saw  an  expression  of  impatience,  almost 
of  annoyance,  cross  the  face  of  the  Princess.  She  disliked 
him,  of  that  he  felt  sure  ;  and  she  had  taken  very  little  trouble 
to  conceal  her  feelings.  He  smiled  openly  as  his  eyes  met 
those  of  the  Cardinal,  and  if  Gabrielle  Borizoff  had  seen  the 
smile  she  would  have  allowed  the  subject  to  drop,  without 
further  notice.  But  her  curiosity  was  aroused  and  she  did 
not  care  to  deny  it. 

"I  repeat  that  I  do  not  understand." 

Dering  remained  silent  and  Bianca  della  Rocca  broke  in. 

"Uncle  loves  to  make  mysteries — you  ought  to  know 
that  by  this  time.  But  it  really  is  true  that  Mr  Dering  is 
an  excellent  gardener  and  had  something  to  do  with  these 
roses.    You  know  that  Giovanni  Altieri  has  started  a  sort 


46 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


of  market-garden  on  his  estate  near  the  Porta  Furba  ?  People 
rather  laughed  at  the  idea  at  first;  but  really  he  is  making 
money  and  some  of  his  friends — Mr  Bering  is  one  of  them — 
go  out  there  every  morning  and  work  for  several  hours  under 
the  direction  of  the  head-gardeners.  I  think,  indeed  I  am 
almost  sure,  that  this  idea  of  amateur  helpers  was  started  for 
the  benefit  of  little  Gigi  Altieri  who  was  so  delicate.  Dr 
Doyenbert  said  that  it  would  do  him  good  to  be  in  the 
open  air  as  much  as  possible,  and  someone,  who  shall  be 
nameless,  invented  the  idea  of  a  band  of  helpers  who  work 
in  the  early  morning  and  then  have  an  open-air  picnic 
breakfast  together!  A  great  many  people  now  make  a  point 
of  having  all  their  flowers  and  vegetables  from  the  Altieri 
Gardens." 

"Quite  ideal!  So  ideal  that  it  sounds  like  the  plot  of 
a  romance.  Principe  Altieri  loses  one  fortune  at  Monte 
Carlo  and  makes  another  at  Porta  Furba — through  the  medium 
of  tea-roses.  The  idea  is  exquisite  and  so  modern.  Even 
the  Romans  are  becoming  democratic :  the  spirit  of  trade 
has  brushed  aside  the  last  remaining  fortifications  of  the 
vanquished  patricians ! " 

A  smothered  exclamation  of  annoyance  broke  from 
Clio  Waring.  She  had  been  nursing  a  grievance  all  the 
evening  and  was  feeling  distinctly  angry  with  Gabrielle. 
With  apparent  irrelevance  she  said,  addressing  the  Cardinal : 

"Your  Eminence  knows  everything.  Can  you  tell  me 
who  it  was  who  said — *  Calomniez^  calomniez  toujours : 
quelque  chose  restera  ^ 

The  expressive  white  brows  shot  up,  one  reaching  a  little 
higher  than  the  other,  and  the  clasped  hands  moved  softly 
as  in  the  action  of  washing. 

"  I  should  like  for  your  sake  to  think  that  it  was  not  that 
gifted  old  rascal  Voltaire.  We  must  give  the  matter  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt,  for  I  am  sure  it  would  be  very  painful 
for  you  to  realize  that  you  had  quoted  such  a  person  —  in 
my  presence !    I  am  reminded  of  a  delectable  moment  in 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


47 


which  my  old  friend  Mrs  Beresford  gave  me  a  great  deal  of 
advice  on  the  subject  of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church  and  its 
management.  She  led  out,  with  wondrous  skill,  a  whole  army 
of  astounding  statements,  which  she  assured  me  were  *  ac- 
cepted facts.'  I  was  overwhelmed,  but  at  the  end,  just  to 
prove  to  myself  that  I  had  some  right  to  my  red  sash,  I 
ventured  to  ask  her  authority.  Without  a  tremor  or  a  blush, 
and  she  is  Irish  and — now — a  Catholic,  she  said  *  Rome.' 
I  found  courage  to  reply  by  a  single  word — '  Zola  ? '  and 
she  nodded  wisely.  Later  on  she  came  so  far  to  meet  my 
possible  views  as  to  say  that  she  believed  the  book  was  not 
recommended  to  the  attention  of  *  young  Catholics':  I  re- 
plied that  I  was  under  the  impression  that  the  book  was  not 
unknown  to  the  Index.  To  which  suggestion  she  answered — 
'Your  Eminence  is  as  Irish  as  myself!  You  couldn't  live 
without  your  little  joke'  I  I  have  a  great  many  Irish  friends, 
and  some  of  my  experiences  with  them  led  me  to  conclude 
that  I  had  better  let  her  have  the  last  word,  but  to  this  day 
I  am  in  the  dark  as  to  whether  it  was  the  Index  itself  that 
supplied  the  'joke'  or  her  own  complete  indifference  to  its 
dictates ! " 

Everyone  laughed,  and  as  Underwood  turned  to  his  host, 
to  whom  he  had  been  recounting  some  happenings  of  inter- 
national interest,  Clio's  brow  cleared :  she  looked  at  Bering, 
but  before  she  could  speak  the  finely-modulated  voice  of  the 
Princess  cut  the  air  : 

"  Would  it  trouble  you  to  tell  me  something  more  about 
this  wonderful  market-garden,  Mr  Bering?  Have  you  a 
studio  there,  or  does  the  culture  of  roses  console  you  for  lost 
time?" 

''  I  do  not  lose  time  over  the  roses,  Madame,  and  my  studio 
is  in  the  Via  Giulia.  You  are,  I  think,  pleased  to  find 
Altieri's  scheme  amusing,  but  it  seems  to  me  rather  admir- 
able. If  you  have  lost  your  money  you  must  either  do  with- 
out it,  make  more  or — live  on  charity.  Personally,  I  am  in 
favour  of  making  more." 


48 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


He  spoke  quietly,  but  all  present  felt  the  air  to  be  charged 
with  elements  of  danger.  From  the  first  it  had  been  evident 
that  there  was  a  wall  of  misunderstanding  between  the  Princess 
and  the  painter.  A  slight  flush  rose  to  Felipe  della  Rocca^s 
delicate  face  as  he  bent  forward  to  speak. 

"Madame  Gabrielle,  I  wish  you  could  realize  what  this 
idea  of  Mr  Bering's  has  meant  to  little  Gigi.  The  child  was 
in  miserable  health  and  had  lost  courage :  no  one  could  do 
anything  with  him.  Now  he  is  bright  and,  for  him,  wonder- 
fully active.  He  can  even  take  a  fencing  lesson  every 
morning  The  speaker  looked  towards  Bering,  who  made 
a  gesture  of  assent.  A  moment  of  silence  and  then  the  tired 
voice  added :  "  If  anyone  had  done  all  that  for  me  when  I 
was  Gigi's  age,  I  should  not  be  sitting  in  this  chair  now." 

Gabrielle  Borizoff  was  really  attached  to  the  Buca  and  had 
always  shown  him  the  most  delicate  attention,  but  at  that 
moment  she  was  influenced  solely  by  a  growing  sensation  of 
irritation  which  she  did  not  try  to  understand.  She  was 
bored  to  extinction,  so  she  told  herself,  by  the  good  works 
of  this  estimable  young  man.  With  the  sweetest  of  smiles 
she  raised  her  dark  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  the  painter's  face : 
she  seemed  lost  in  wonder.    At  last  she  said,  very  softly : 

It  certainly  seems  to  me  that  Mr  Bering  deserves  to  be 
canonized !  Within  the  last  twelve  hours  I  have  heard  of 
him  in  connection  with  three  wonderful  achievements  :  the 
salvation,  from  starvation,  of  a  whole  family  of  Russian 
peasants ;  the  salvation,  from  unhealthy  luxury,  of  a  beautiful 
young  singer ;  the  salvation,  from  chronic  ill-health,  of  Gigi 
Altieri !    Is  not  such  a  record  amazing?  " 

Her  manner  was  so  maliciously  innocent  that  the  mocking 
words  seemed  robbed  of  offence,  but  on  Bering's  dark  face 
there  was  no  answering  smile.  He  glanced  quickly  at  Mrs 
Waring,- who  looked  confused  and  angry,  and  then  his  eyes 
met  those  of  Underwood.  The  American  made  an  un- 
conscious gesture  of  apology.  Bering  shook  his  head :  then 
he  turned  to  the  Princess. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  49 


"  You  are  so  well  read  that  I  need  not  tell  you  the  name 
of  the  poet  who  said :  *  O  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us, 
to  see  oorsels  as  ithers  see  us  M  I  really  did  not  know  I 
impressed  anyone  with  the  idea  that  I  was,  by  reason  of 
superfluous  goodness,  doomed  to  early  death,  but  as  one  lives 
one  learns.  I  don^t  quite  understand  what  you  mean  about 
the  *  achievements '  first  named,  but  I  certainly  deserve  no 
canonization  for  spending  three  or  four  hours  at  Altieri's 
place  every  morning.  I'm  not  a  man  of  fashion  and  I 
require  plenty  of  open-air  exercise.  I  wouldn't  miss  my 
morning  tramp  to  Porto  Furba  for  anything  I  could  be  offered, 
and  I  am  primitive  enough  to  consider  it  a  privilege  to  be 
permitted  to  attend  to  beautiful  flowers.  I  assure  you  the 
birth  and  life  and  death  of  a  rose  make  a  poem  of  no  mean 
order." 

Gabrielle  Borizoff,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
felt  disconcerted.  Something  in  the  painter's  expression  as 
he  quoted  the  well-worn  lines  made  her  realize  that  he 
intended  them  to  have  a  double  meaning:  he  meant  her 
to  understand  that  it  might  be  well  if  she  could  realize  what 
people  really  thought  of  her — what  he  thought.  She  felt 
furious.  With  the  audacious  stranger ;  with  her  friend  Clio 
Waring  for  having  thrust  him  upon  her ;  with  herself.  She 
had  been  rude  and  she  had  been  reproved.  The  position 
was  intolerable.  At  the  moment  the  conversation  round  the 
table  became  general,  for  everyone  felt  that  warring  elements 
were  present.  The  Cardinal  was  speaking  with  considerable 
eagerness. 

"  Dr  Doyenbert  wants  to  insist  that  Monsieur  Rodin  shall 
be  asked  to  execute  it." 

They  were  discussing  a  proposed  statue  for  the  Vatican 
gardens  and  Underwood  looked  across  at  the  painter. 

**You  are  well  acquainted  with  Rodin's  work?  Is  he 
really  so  very  great  or  has  his  eccentricity  anything  to  do  with 
his  reputation  for  greatness  ?  " 

Bering  laughed. 
4 


50  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


*'He  is  certainly  one  of  the  greatest  sculptors  the  world 
has  known  since  the  days  of  Michelangelo,  and  he  is  not 
eccentric  at  all?" 

"  Not  eccentric  ?    Have  you  seen  his  *  Balzac '  ?  " 

The  painter  nodded. 

"  And  hsiveyou  seen  his  *  Penseur '  ?  " 

The  Cardinal  settled  himself  down  in  his  high-backed 
chair  :  he  was  a  genuine  and  an  eclectic  lover  of  the  arts. 
The  American  assented  but  his  manner  still  expressed 
doubt. 

"  Of  course  I  have  seen  it  and  I  realize  that  it  is  very 
wonderful,  but  I  cannot  say  that  it  altogether  suggests  to  me 
^  A  thinker 

"  Perhaps  not — but  for  all  that  it  is  a  *  thinker ' :  that  and 
nothing  else.  Before  one  can  understand  the  work  of  such  a 
man  as  Rodin — before  one  can  understand  the  work  of  any 
great  artist — one  must  be  educated :  and  such  an  education 
takes  time.  I  grant  you  that  the  *  Balzac '  is  difficult  to 
understand — but  the  *  Penseur '  ?  Let  your  mind  dwell  upon 
what  thought  really  means  when  you  look  at  it  and  you  will 
realize  that  the  man  is  thinking  all  over.  Not  only  with  his 
brain,  his  distended  nostrils,  his  compressed  lips  and  his 
knitted  brow,  but  with  every  muscle  of  his  body.  He  is 
grasping  some  thought  and  dragging  from  it  its  secrets. 
Just  like  that  Balzac  must  have  looked  when  some  fresh 
thought  flashed  across  his  brain  and  when  he  knew  he  must 
seize  and  imprison  it.  Just  like  that  I  have  often  seen 
Carriere  look  when  a  great  idea  held  him.  A  great  thinker, 
painter,  poet,  sculptor,  or  writer — is  not  a  poseur  who  *  thinks  ' 
for  the  gallery.  A  great  truth  is  flashed  across  his  brain  and  it 
is  his  duty  to  imprison  and  preserve  it  for  the  benefit  of 
generations  to  come.  Carriere  once  said  to  me,  just  before 
his  death,  '  Life  is  a  series  of  efforts  in  which  we  take  active 
part  and  which  must  be  continued  by  others.  This  idea 
greatly  encourages  me  because  it  leaves  me  perpetually  work- 
ing and  in  action.'    He  said  that,  and  meant  it,  because  he 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  51 


was  a  great  thinker,  and  because  he  greeted  each  great  thought 
in  the  spirit  of  Rodin's  *  Fenseur.^  " 

A  subtle  change  had  come  over  the  painter's  face,  and  his 
voice,  always  rich  and  musical,  had  taken  on  a  vibrating  tone  : 
for  the  moment  everything  was  forgotten  except  the  demands 
of  art.  His  dark  eyes  had  become  dreamy,  and  in  their 
depths  there  was  fire.  The  old  Cardinal  looked  thoroughly 
content  and  his  smile  was  comprehensive  as  he  exchanged 
glances  with  his  niece. 

I  should  like  to  meet  Monsieur  Rodin,''  he  said.  He 
must  be  an  extraordinary  man.  He  travels  a  great  deal,  no 
doubt  ?    He  is  likely  to  come  to  Rome  this  year  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  your  Eminence  :  no  doubt  he  has  travelled 
a  good  deal,  but  I'm  sure  he  is  of  opinion  that  he  does  not 
need  to  travel  abroad  in  order  to  find  food  for  his  genius. 
He  finds  all  he  wants  at  Meudon  or  on  the  Boulevards." 

"  It  is  rather  difficult  to  see  where  food  for  the  imagination 
of  an  artist  could  be  found  on  the  Boulevards  of  Paris  !  " 

It  was  Mrs  Waring  who  made  the  little  interruption  and 
the  painter  smiled  as  he  turned  to  her. 

"  Perhaps  ?  But  then  Rodin  does  not  believe  in 
*  imagination.'  He  says  it's  only  a  hindrance  which  consists 
of  old  lessons  once  read  and  unconsciously  absorbed.  He 
knows  that  art  must  be  realistic." 

"  Of  course  that's  all  very  well  in  theory,  but  how  is  a 
sculptor  to  be  realistic  in  these  days  ?  Do  you  suppose  he  is 
going  to  find  a  Venus  or  an  Apollo  in  the  woods  at  Meudon, 
or  drinking  absinthe  at  a  cafS  on  the  Boulevards  ?  " 

The  tone  was  so  sceptical  that  everyone  laughed  and  all 
eyes  were  turned  on  the  painter.    He  was  quite  unmoved. 

"  Why  not  ?  Manners  and  customs  have  changed  and 
costumes  have  changed  —  very  considerably  —  but  do  you 
suppose  there  are  now  no  human  forms  similar  to  those 
handed  down  to  us  in  marble  by  the  Greeks  ?  If  you  think 
that  I  assure  you  you  are  mistaken.  I've  seen  many  a  woman 
as  perfectly  formed  as  the  Venus  of  Milo,  and  many  a  man 


52  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


who  might  have  been  the  model  for  the  Belvedere  Apollo. 
Given  individuals  who  live  a  healthy,  natural  life,  and  whose 
parents,  and  grandparents,  and  great-grandparents,  have  been 
even  moderately  natural  and  healthy,  you  are  likely  to  dis- 
cover something  very  noble.  Of  course  the  Greeks  had  a  pull 
over  us  because  they  worshipped  physical  beauty  and  laid 
everything  at  its  shrine,  but  even  now,  in  these  supposedly 
degenerate  days,  we  have  beautiful  things  all  round  us  if  only 
we  know  where  to  look.  I  could  show  you  scores  and  scores 
of  Basque  peasants,  for  example,  who  are  as  fine,  physically, 
as  any  of  the  beautiful  young  men  of  ancient  days." 
Clio  laughed. 

"When  shall  we  start  for  the  Basses-Pyrenees?"  she  said 
insinuatingly. 

Princess  Borizoff  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  lazily 
moved  to  and  fro  her  fan  of  carved  tortoise-shell  and  lace. 
She  was  beginning  to  understand  why  Clio  Waring  spoke  with 
enthusiasm  of  the  painter.  They  were  evidently  good  friends 
and  Dering^s  manner  towards  the  impulsive  little  widow  was 
delightful  :  he  seemed  like  an  elder  brother  and  a  close  friend 
all  in  one.  She  herself  was  taking  no  part  in  the  conversation 
and  it  amused  her  to  watch  the  eager  faces  all  turned  in  the 
same  direction.  The  Irish  artist  was  accepted  as  an  authority 
in  her  friend's  house. 

The  Cardinal  was  speaking. 
But  surely  Monsieur  Rodin  would  admit  that  constant 
and  varied  travel  gives  width  and  strength  to  the  ideas  ?  He 
would  not  suggest  a  circumscribed  education  for  an  artist  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  probable,  your  Eminence,  that  he  would  not 
admit  the  word  *  circumscribed.'  I  have  heard  him  say  that 
the  man  who  knows  one  tree  perfectly,  the  shape  of  each 
branch,  the  details  of  each  leaf,  its  aspect  under  each  change 
of  light  and  shade — the  man  who  knows  the  beauty  of  one 
woman  in  all  her  moods — knows  more  of  nature  and  of  real 
beauty  than  he  who  has  been  three  times  round  the  world  and 
has  '  done  '  the  picture  galleries  of  Europe  !    On  that  point 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


53 


all  great  artists  are  agreed.  You  remember  Puvis  de  Chavannes' 
^J^ai  vu  le  so  let  I  se  coucher  sur  la  Loire.  J^ai  vu  tous  les 
couchers  de  soleiV  1  Carriere  has  said  the  same  thing  over 
and  over  again,  and  it  was  the  soul  of  Flaubert's  art.  You 
find  the  *  one  woman  in  all  her  moods '  in  Madame 
Bovary." 

"  I  see !  or  rather,  I  do  not  yet  see :  I  only  realize  that 
there  is  something  worth  while  to  be  seen.  You  studied 
under  Carriere — did  you  not  ?  Another  great  and  little  under- 
stood genius.  Difficult  too  :  I  myself  could  never  have  hoped 
to  even  begin  to  understand  him  if  my  old  friend  Doyenbert 
had  not  been  so  insistent/* 

"  Yes.    The  doctor  permits  himself  that  one  enthusiasm. 

"Two — I  think?**  The  Cardinal  glanced  across  the 
table  with  a  mischievous  expression  on  his  handsome  old  face 
and  Bering  gave  an  answering  smile :  he  knew  that  the 
famous  critic  had,  for  special  reasons,  sung  his  praises  in 
the  Vatican  circles.  The  Duca,  who  had  been  listening 
eagerly  to  the  conversation,  broke  in  just  then : 

"  Some  day,  when  you  have  an  hour  to  spare,  I  want  you 
to  talk  to  me  of  Eugene  Carriere.  I  have  in  my  possession 
one  of  his  pictures  —  ^ Le  baiser  du  soir^ — and  I  think  it 
superb.  He  must  have  been  an  extraordinary  man.  What 
was  he  like  as  a  teacher  ?  " 

Bering  hesitated. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  answer  that  question.  Carriere 
was  always  just  himself  and  he  was  unique.  As  to  his  method 
of  teaching?  Perhaps  you  will  understand  something  of  it 
when  I  tell  you  that  the  most  valuable  lesson  he  ever  gave 
me  was  conveyed  in  these  words :  '  The  human  body  is  not 
a  cast.  It  is  a  piece  of  repoussi  work — hammered  out  by 
great  blows  from  within.'  I  took  that  *  lesson*  with  me  to 
Japan  and  after  studying  it  for  two  years  I  had  only  begun 
to  understand  it!  You  see  Carriere— like  Rodin,  Flaubert, 
Balzac,  Angelo  —  was  a  penseur.  And  his  mission  as  a 
Master  was  to  teach  others  how  to  think.** 


54  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"You  do  not  think  then  that  Nature  is  capable  of  con- 
ducting that  *  mission  '  ?  " 

The  Princess  spoke  very  softly  but  her  smile  was  malicious. 
Dering  looked  at  her  silently,  then  he  said : 

"  Quite  capable — if  given  fair  play  I  But  then  it  isn't  the 
fashion  to  play  fair  with  Nature/' 

"You  mean  to  say  that  we  do  not  care  to  think?" 

"Much  more  than  that.  I  believe  the  majority  of  men 
and  women  never  realize  what  an  original  thought  means.'' 

"Oh!  Originality!  That  is,  of  course,  the  war-cry  of 
modern  painters  ;  but — is  it  really  so  desirable  ?  " 

"I  wonder  just  what  you  mean  when  you  speak  of 
*  originality '  in  that  tone?" 

She  laughed. 

"I  am  afraid  I  should  describe  *  originality '  as  the  art 
of  being  eccentric — successfully." 

"  Just  so !  But  then  originality  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  art  of  being  eccentric — successfully  or  otherwise.  It 
consists  in  the  power  to  appreciate  the  emotions  of  humanity 
allied  to  the  power  to  express  them — with  pen,  brush  or 
tongue." 

"But  then  the  things  we  call  *  original'  are  almost  always 
eccentric — more  or  less  ?  " 

Clio  Waring  spoke  quickly  and  the  painter  looked  across 
at  her  smiling. 

"Have  you  never  heard  Dr  Doyenbert  trot  out  his  pet 
phrase — t originalite  voulue  n'existe  pas.  Si  elle  est  voidue 
die  devient  une  convention  '  ?  " 

The  Cardinal's  eyes  lighted  up. 

"/  have  heard  him  say  that — more  than  once:  and  how 
true  it  is.    A  decisive  criticism  on  many  modern  works  of  art." 

"  As  your  Eminence  is  aware— the  doctor  is  always  decisive  ! 
And  then  he  delights  in  displaying  serene  indifference  towards 
the  sacrosanct  canons  of  Art  ! " 

The  painter  was  still  smiling.  Princess  Borizoff  closed 
her  fan  with  an  impatient  gesture. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


55 


"You  affect  to  despise  modern  art,  Mr  Bering,  and  you 
may  be  justified ;  but  I  wish  very  much  you  would  leave  the 
subject  of  art  for  a  moment  and  return  to  the  *  mission '  in 
connection  with  thought.  I  am  afraid  I  must  be  very  stupid, 
but  really  I  do  not  understand  what  you  mean  when  you 
say  that  we  require  to  be  taught  how  to  think  ?  " 

Bering  paused  perceptibly.  He  was  conscious  that  this 
beautiful  woman  was  for  some  reason  antagonistic  to  him,  and 
he  felt  tempted  to  turn  the  subject  with  a  jest.  Then  he  put 
aside  the  small  temptation  as  unworthy. 

**I  hope  you'll  pardon  me  if  I  say  that  I'm  sure  you  are 
wronging  yourself.  You  are  much  too  intelligent  not  to 
realize  that,  nine  times  in  ten,  when  we  say  *  I  think '  we 
merely  mean  *  I  echo '  ?  The  average  man  or  woman  would 
find  it  a  difficult  task  to  indicate  clearly  his  or  her  genuine 
thought  on  almost  any  subject.  It's  our  habit  to  listen  and 
to  echo — so  much  our  habit  that  we  do  it  quite  unconsciously. 
We  are  insistently  conventional — never  more  so  than  in  our 
originality,  the  doctor  is  indeed  right  there.  Whether  original 
thought  is,  or  is  not,  a  desirable  affair  may  be  a  moot  point, 
but  there's  nothing  more  certain  than  that  we — the  greater 
number  of  us — cannot  think  until  we  have  learned  to  do  so  : 
and  the  lesson  is  a  difficult  one." 

"  You  take  life  very  seriously  ! " 

It  was  the  Princess  who  spoke  and  the  painter's  dark  eyes 
expressed  open  amusement  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  I  take  it  as  I  find  it,  Madame !  It  is  serious — from 
every  point  of  view.  One  may  listen — and  echo.  One  may 
scoff  and  deride  and  belittle.  One  may  even  make  the  pied 
de  nez  at  Nature,  but  nothing  alters.  Nature  remains — 
Nature ;  humanity  remains — humanity ;  life  remains — life  ! 
It's  a  thankless  task  for  pigmies  to  kick  against  a  mountain. 
They  would  be  wiser  to  try  to  understand  something  of  its 
construction  and  to  climb  up  its  rugged  sides ;  of  course  taking 
for  granted  they  believe  that  something  desirable  is  to  be 
found  on  the  top." 


56 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


*'  Vou  believe  that?" 
*^Yes." 

The  Princess  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  Then  the 
malicious  smile  stole  back  to  her  face. 

"Your  Eminence,"  she  said,  **do  you  not  think  that  a 
soutane  would  prove  very  becoming  to  Mr  Dering  ?  " 

The  Cardinal's  eyes  were  kindly  but  unsmiling. 

"I  am  very  sure  he  would  not  disgrace  one,  Princess,"  he 
said  quietly. 

•  ••••••* 

The  streets  were  mysterious  with  the  intense  blackness 
and  silvery  whiteness  of  a  Roman  moonlight  night  when 
Princess  Borizoff  drove  back  alone  to  her  villa. 

The  big  American  had  offered  to  see  that  Mrs  Waring 
reached  her  hotel  in  safety  and  Miles  Dering  had  elected 
to  walk. 

As  she  lay  back  against  the  luxurious  cushions  of  her 
carriage  she  allowed  her  thoughts  to  concentrate  on  the 
events  of  the  night.  She  was  still  conscious  of  feeling 
irritated  and  she  regretted  having  joined  the  supper-party; 
but  she  was  too  intelligent  herself  to  deny  the  intelligence 
of  others,  and  unquestionably  the  young  painter  was  clever, 
even  irrteresting.  She  seemed  again  to  hear  his  deep  voice 
as  he  exchanged  kindly  witticisms  with  the  old  Cardinal,  and 
she  acknowledged  that  he  had  looked  very  distinguished 
when  he  made  a  reverent  genuflexion  on  touching  his  lips 
to  the  amethyst  ring  at  the  moment  of  farewell.  He  was 
not  ordinary — that  much  she  was  willing  to  concede — and 
somehow  she  found  herself  thinking  of  Clio  Waring's  remark, 
**I  want  you  to  make  Miles  Dering  wish  to  paint  your 
portrait.'' 

She  was  possessed  of  a  considerable  sense  of  humour 
and  could  sometimes  appreciate  a  joke  even  when  its  point 
was  turned  against  herself.  She  felt  certain  that  up  to  the 
present  the  painter  had  not  the  faintest  desire  to  paint  her 
portrait.    Indeed,  she  suspected  that  he  did  not  specially 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  57 


admire  her  and  this  alone  gave  him  a  special  place  in 
her  mind.  She  was  too  beautiful  and  too  spoiled  to  be 
perturbed  by  the  blindness  of  one  man,  but  it  surprised  her  : 
every  other  painter  she  had  ever  known  had  raved  about  her 
beauty  and  had  asked,  almost  always  in  vain,  for  permission 
to  immortalize  it  on  canvas. 

She  smiled  softly  as  she  recalled  the  bronzed  face,  alight 
with  the  fire  of  some  hidden  feeling,  as  the  painter  had  looked 
at  her  and  said — "Love  merely  asks  *what  can  I  give."* 
He  probably  could  love  like  that,  she  thought,  and  the  smile 
faded :  for  she  remembered  a  certain  night,  in  Russia,  on 
which  a  man,  whom  she  had  always  liked  but  never  loved, 
had  said  almost  the  same  thing  to  her — a  man  who  had 
given  her,  willingly  and  without  thought  of  any  return,  his 
whole  life.  And  curiously  enough  it  was  this  man  who  had 
sent  her  the    Russia  "  of  Miles  Bering. 

In  sending  the  picture  her  old  friend  had  written  a  letter, 
full  of  devotion — a  letter  without  hope,  for  he  had  long 
before  realized  that  she  could  never  love  him,  but  which 
contained  precious  words  of  abiding  affection.  In  it  he  had 
said — "Should  it  ever  happen  that  you  learn  the  meaning 
of  the  words  *  I  love,'  I  beg  of  you,  I  entreat  of  you,  to  tell 
me.  I  ask  it,  as  my  right,  that  I  should  share  your  joy 
and  I  shall  claim,  as  my  right,  the  privilege  of  crowning  with 
my  heart's  best  wishes  the  man  who  shall  have  made  you 
quite  perfect/' 

Poor  Boris — his  love  had  been  very  welcome  for  it  had  never 
brought  her  trouble :  he  was  a  poet  and  a  patriot :  he  loved 
his  country  only  one  degree  less  than  he  loved  her.  And  he 
would  have  found  the  "achievements  "  which  she  had  mocked 
very  fine. 

Yes — Boris  de  Romanoff  would  have  liked  the  painter. 
He  would  have  condemned,  silently  but  most  surely,  her 
attitude.  She  had,  she  knew,  wished  to  make  Bering 
ridiculous.  And  what  had  happened?  That  any  human 
creature  could  dare  to  reprove  her  she  declined  to  admit, 


58  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


but — he  had  shown  no  fear :  he  had  not  taken  much  trouble 
to  conceal  his  thoughts. 

She  dismissed  the  carnage  and  crossed  the  wide  terrace 
in  front  of  the  house.  She  was  on  high  ground.  Rome, 
fallen  yet  deathless,  spread  itself  out  before  her  in  sombre 
shadows.  Soracte  and  the  Alban  Mountains  were  outlined 
against  the  horizon,  and  in  the  mystic  brilliancy  of  a  moonlight 
night  the  dome  of  St  Peter's  gleamed  soft  and  white.  Long 
shadows  crept  out  from  among  the  box-hedges  of  the  silent 
gardens,  and  as  a  breath  of  chill  wdnd  stole  up  from  the  orange 
groves  the  Princess  shivered  and  drew  her  sables  more  closely 
round  her.  As  far  as  she  could  see,  her  world  was  domed 
with  stars  thrown  against  a  midnight  sky.  There  was  a  great 
calm.    Rome  was  sleeping. 

During  the  evening  rain  had  fallen:  over  the  sleeping 
city  a  mist,  opalescent  as  twilight,  stretched  its  ghostly  wings : 
on  the  ivy  borders  of  the  fountains  rain-drops  gleamed  silver 
in  the  moonlight  and  the  still  waters  seemed  to  have  borrowed 
the  *'deep  divine  dark  dayshine  of  the  sea''  for  the  reflections 
were  pale  gold  as  well  as  silver.  It  was  a  magic  moment 
and  the  Princess  leaned  her  hand  against  the  stone  balustrade 
of  the  terrace  as  she  bent  forward  and  watched  the  sleeping 
city  of  strange  dreams  and  unrealized  desires. 

On  the  palimpsest  of  Rome  the  ambitions  of  world-famous 
men  have  been  written — and  but  imperfectly  erased.  To  the 
eyes  of  the  soul  mad  desires,  fierce  emulations,  ruthless 
determination  to  conquer,  stand  revealed  on  the  invisible 
manuscript — in  flaming  letters  of  gold  and  of  blood. 

For  two  thousand  years  and  more  Rome  was  the  palpitat- 
ing heart  of  the  world  of  ambition  and  desire :  and  how 
poignant  must  have  been  her  suffering?  Who  can  wonder 
that  her  stately  head  is  bowed^under^  its  weight  of  woe,  and 
that  the  cypress — faithful  mourner  in  imperishable  black — 
springs  up  on  every  side  ? 

With  spring  may  come  sweet  carpets'^of  violets  and  blue 
irises  and  yellow  crocus  flowers.    Pomegranate  and  oleander 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  59 


and  myrtle  may  expand  under  the  burning  rays  of  a  southern 
sun.  Roses  may  bud  and  blossom  on  every  wall  and  lonely 
tomb,  but  spring,  summer  and  autumn  come  and  go,  and 
the  cypress,  the  symbol  of  the  Eternal  City,  remains  unmoved, 
untouched. 

The  minutes  crept  on,  one  by  one,  and  still  the  Princess 
leaned  forward  and  watched  the  sleeping  city.  Her  thoughts 
were  with  the  past  but  something  of  the  present  was  also 
with  her.  Words  spoken  that  evening  by  the  audacious 
painter  came  back  with  unwelcome  persistency.  He  had 
been  unexpectedly  frank — almost  impertinent,  she  thought, 
but  she  could  not  drive  him  from  her  thoughts. 

How  his  dark  face  had  softened  when  he  said — **The 
birth  and  death  of  a  rose  make  a  poem  of  no  mean  order." 
She  smiled  half  mockingly  as  she  plucked  a  glorious  red 
rose  from  its  trellis  support  and  noted  the  effect  of  moonlight 
on  its  velvet  petals. 

Then  she  turned  and  entered  the  house,  scarcely  conscious 
that  the  flower  was  still  in  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  V 


HE  Derings  had  a  suite  of  rooms  in  an  old  house  in 


1  the  Via  Giulia.  The  painter  retained  the  flat  in  Paris 
which  had  so  long  been  occupied  by  his  uncle,  but  his  real 
home  was  in  Rome.  Paris  he  loved  because  of  cherished 
associations :  in  Japan  he  had  many  friends,  but  he  never 
forgot  that  it  was  in  the  Eternal  City  the  artist  within  him  had 
been  roused. 

Years  before,  when  he  visited  it  for  the  first  time,  accom- 
panied by  his  uncle,  Rome  had  come  as  a  revelation  to  the 
dreamy  boy.  It  was  in  midsummer  when  few  foreigners  were 
to  be  seen  in  the  streets  and  when  the  Romans  themselves 
were  in  full  possession  of  their  City.  Scorching  suns  had 
burnt  and  blistered  the  pines  and  forced  from  them  a  subtle 
perfume  which  lulled  the  imagination  and  awakened  the 
senses.  Golden  oranges  lay  languid  against  a  background  of 
dark  green  leaves,  and  in  the  gardens  yellow  jasmines  and 
velvet  roses,  crimson  and  white  and  yellow,  sent  forth  their 
scents  with  lavish  generosity.  In  the  streets  and  crowded 
squares  the  people  laughed  and  passed  the  time  of  day,  and — 
as  the  brazen  sun-god  sank  to  sleep  and  made  room  for  the 
pale  gold  moon  —  whispered  of  love  and  grew  strangely 
silent. 

In  that  first  visit  the  boy  had  learned  that  the  immensity 
of  the  past  serves  but  to  enhance  the  glories  of  the  present. 
He  had  then  seen  Rome  in  the  glory  of  summer — at  the  time 
when  all  southern  cities  are  in  their  zenith — and  he  had  never 
forgotten  his  first  impressions. 

The  rooms  on  the  first  floor  of  the  quaint  old  house  in  the 


60 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  6i 


Via  Giulia  were  large  and  sufficiently  numerous  for  the  little 
household  which  consisted  of  the  artist,  his  sister,  and  two 
devoted  men-servants,  who  had  attached  themselves  to  Bering 
when  he  was  wandering  in  Japan,  and  who  had  refused  to  be 
left  behind  when  he  returned  to  Europe. 

Miles  loved  the  old  street,  with  its  square  paving-stones 
which  skirted  the  houses,  since  of  footpath  there  was  none : 
the  long  straight  street  which  had  once  been  used  as  a  Corso 
and  which  reached  from  France — represented  by  the  Palazzo 
Farnese — to  the  national  Church  of  the  Florentines,  San 
Giovanni  de  'Fiorentini.  He  loved  it  for  its  associations,  for 
Michelangelo  had  worked  on  the  river  substructions  of  the  old 
Church  on  the  Tiber,  and  he  loved  it  for  its  silence  and  calm 
dignity.  The  Via  Giulia  had  once  been  great  and  opulent, 
and  now  in  the  twilight  of  its  existence  it  was  content  to  be 
simply  restful.  For  over  five  hundred  yards  it  ran  parallel 
with  the  Tiber,  but  of  traffic  it  knew  little  or  nothing.  It 
seemed  a  forgotten  corner  of  the  great  city.  Here  and  there 
creeping  plants  spread  their  green  loveliness  over  the  bars 
and  gratings  of  sombre  windows;  the  little  lane  leading 
direct  to  the  river  banks  was  rough  and  deserted  as  a  country 
road. 

But  though  Bering  was  attached  by  cords  of  fervent 
adm.iration  to  the  Eternal  City  he  sometimes  found  himself 
regretting,  keenly,  the  old  days  in  his  uncle's  flat  in  the  Rue  de 
Douai,  He  had  many  good  friends  in  Rome,  but  in  Paris, 
in  John  Fitzgerald's  lifetime,  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
associating  daily  with  men  whose  names  were  world-famous. 
Everyone  had  loved  the  witty  old  Irishman,  and  his  supper 
parties — at  which  large  dishes  of  Limerick  bacon  had  played 
a  prominent  part — were  eagerly  attended.  Eugene  Carriere, 
who  had  rooms  close  by,  was  one  of  the  most  honoured 
guests :  not  infrequently  Auguste  Rodin,  Jean  Bolent,  Br 
Boyenbert  and  other  celebrities  swelled  the  crowd,  and  Bering 
often  found  himself  looking  back,  with  something  like  awe,  to 
the  evenings — they  were  not  many — when  a  strange-looking 


62  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


man  had  shuffled  into  the  salon.  A  man  with  a  flat  moujik 
face  and  unkempt  hair  and  eyes  which  peered  this  way  and 
that  with  devouring  penetration.  The  name  of  Paul  Verlaine 
had  always  been  surrounded  in  his  mind  with  mystery  and 
unrealized  possibilities.  The  poet  had  represented  to  him, 
everything  that  was  terrible  and  marvellous  and  devastating  : 
when  he  had  looked  at  him,  with  a  boy's  eyes,  he  had  found 
himself  wondering  fearfully  what  it  must  mean  to  possess  the 
soul  of  a  poet  in  the  body  of  a  satyr. 

To  Verlaine,  John  Fitzgerald  had  ever  been  specially 
attentive  and  affectionate,  for  he  loved  the  pauvre  et  faible 
garfon  "  and  reverenced  his  genius ;  but  the  idol  of  his  latter 
days  was  Eugene  Carriere. 

In  Carriere  the  old  man  found  the  realization  of  his 
fondest  dreams.  Here  indeed  was  a  man  of  whom  the 
community  of  Brook  Farm  would  have  been  proud.  Here 
was  a  man  who  had  had  the  courage  of  beginnings  and  who 
had  no  fear  of  poverty. 

It  was  his  greatest  delight  to  draw  attention  to  the  fact 
that  though  Carriere's  life,  from  the  ordinary  point  of  view, 
was  simple  to  the  verge  of  banality,  it  was  crammed 
with  interest  because  it  was  in  touch  with  the  great  and 
simple  elements  of  humanity.  Carriere  was,  to  him,  a  perfect 
specimen  of  a  man  who  had  slowly  entered  into  possession  of 
himself,  who,  in  his  own  personality,  taught  those  who  were 
eager  to  succeed  too  quickly  what  it  is  that  gives  courage  for 
a  great  struggle :  what  it  is  that  gives  force  for  continuous 
effort :  what  it  is  that  gives  serenity  in  inevitable  trials.  He 
never  ceased  to  impress  upon  his  nephew  the  fact  that  the 
force  which  sustained  Eugene  Carriere  through  countless 
struggles  and  disappointments  was  his  inviolable  fidelity  to  a 
lofty  ideal.  To  the  ideal  which  embodies  truth  and  love.  An 
ideal  so  supremely  great  that  it  frees  its  followers  from  all 
other  servitude. 

To  the  cheery  evenings  in  the  old  flat,  Miles  often  looked 
back  and  always  with  keen  regret  that  they  should  have  passed 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  63 


out  of  his  reach.  To  endeavour  to  reconstruct  anything 
which  has  been  very  precious  is  almost  always  a  thankless 
task,  but  reconstruction  becomes  impossible  when  the  chief 
elements  are  wanting. 

John  Fitzgerald  and  Eugene  Carriere  and  Paul  Verlaine 
had  gone  in  search  of  that  undiscovered  country  from  whose 
bourne  no  traveller  returns.'*  Auguste  Rodin,  Dolent,  Doyen- 
bert  and  many  others  remained  and  were  counted  amongst 
the  painter's  best  friends,  but  his  love  and  reverence  had  been 
given  to  his  uncle  and  to  his  master  and  friend — Carriere. 

Bering  and  his  sister  had  the  gift  of  making  a  home  wher- 
ever they  were,  and  persons  of  widely  differing  tastes  and 
character  found  it  very  pleasant  to  spend  a  quiet  hour  in  the 
big  silent  studio,  or  in  Jessica's  private  den.  Mrs  Waring 
paid  frequent  visits  to  the  Via  Giulia  and,  two  days  after  the 
gala  at  the  Costanzi,  she  found  her  way  to  the  pretty  sitting- 
room,  hung  in  grey-blue  linen  and  gay  with  chintz  furniture 
coverings,  which  overlooked  the  garden. 

Clio  was  fond  of  the  painter's  sister  and  thoroughly  enjoyed 
spending  an  afternoon  with  her.  She  admired  the  quiet  little 
woman's  strength  of  purpose  and  though  she  chaffed  her  a 
good  deal  about  her  "societies"  and  her  interest  in  "im- 
possible people "  she  was  intelligent  enough  to  see  that  she 
was,  in  her  own  way,  unique. 

Jessica  Bering  was  a  very  sweet-looking  woman  of  about 
thirty-two,  with  a  fragile  figure  and  pretty,  if  insignificant, 
features.  Her  eyes  were  the  one  remarkable  feature  of  her 
small  face :  deep  blue  in  colour  and  set  in  fringes  of  black 
lashes,  they  were  the  mirrors  of  a  singularly  pure  soul. 

In  the  long  ago  days  Jess  had  had  a  love  affair  which  had 
not  ended  well.  She  had  given  a  girl's  fresh  generous  love  to 
a  man  who  had  accepted  and  then  tired  of  the  gift.  She  had 
never  uttered  a  word  of  complaint  and  when  her  Uncle  John 
Fitzgerald  had  spoken  out  with  characteristic  warmth  of 
temper  she  had  taken  her  courage  in  both  hands  and  had 
given  her  answer.    She  said  that  she  had  experienced  the 


64  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


joys  of  love  and  that  no  one  could  take  that  experience  from 
her.  If  she  had  failed  to  retain  that  which  had  once  been  in 
her  possession  the  fault  was  hers.  She  had  spoken  with 
simple  dignity  but  with  such  determination  that  "Jack  Fitz  " 
had  recognized  that  he  must  give  in.  The  same  fighting-blood 
which  never  ceased  to  course  through  his  veins  was  active  in 
the  fragile  form  of  his  niece,  only  in  another  guise.  She  would 
never  ask  for  pity — nor  accept  it. 

Mrs  Waring  was  looking  distractingly  pretty  that  afternoon  : 
she  was  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  grey,  a  pale,  subtle  shade, 
and  at  her  breast  there  was  a  huge  bunch  of  violets.  She 
looked  little  more  than  a  girl  though  she  unhesitatingly 
admitted  to  thirty. 

It  was  evident  that  she  felt  at  home  in  Bering's  flat,  for 
when  one  of  the  Japanese  servants  arranged  the  tea-table  she 
lifted  a  corner  of  the  lace-edged  cloth  and  uttered  an  exclama- 
tion of  mock  indignation. 

"  My  dear  girl — but  where's  your  consistency  ?  Genuine 
*  Irlande '  and  of  the  most  costly  order  !  What  does  that 
reformer  brother  of  yours  say  to  such  extravagance  ?  " 

Jessica  laughed  merrily. 

"  Why  will  you  insist  on  pretending  to  believe  that  Miles 
hates  pretty  things  ?  He  loves  them.  Sometimes  I  tell  him 
that  he  wallows  in  luxury  !  He  brought  back  the  loveliest  big 
quilts  from  Japan — all  soft  satins  and  exquisite  embroideries, 
and  he  has  one  of  them  on  his  bed  always.  I  tell  you  he 
revels  in  purple  and  fine  linen  :  his  silk  shirts  are  dreams  :  I 
often  threaten  to  cut  them  up  for  blouses  !  " 

Mrs  Waring  sat  back  in  her  arm-chair  and  threw  out  her 
hands  in  pretended  horror. 

But  he's  always  preaching  against  the  extravagance  of  the 
present-day  generation.  IVe  heard  him.  You  can't  deny 
it." 

"  Senseless  extravagance,  yes,  perhaps — when  he  has  time 
to  think  about  it.  But  you  never  heard  him  say  that 
hand-made  embroideries  or  laces  were  extravagances — when 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  65 


those  who  own  them  know  how  and  by  whom  they  were 
made  ?  " 

**But  what  difference  can  it  make  *  how  and  by  whom* 
a  thing  is  made  ?  You  want  it  and  you  buy  it :  that's  the 
whole  affair/' 

"  Not  quite."  Jessica's  musical  voice  suddenly  became 
hard.  It  may  be  the  *  whole  affair '  to  you  but  what  of  the 
girls  and  women  who  put  their  life  into  the  stitches  of  which 
you  think  so  little  ?  " 

Clio  stared. 

My  dear !    What  of  them,  indeed  ?    How  should  I,  or 
anyone  else  who  buys  things,  know  anything  about  them  ?  " 
**But  you  ought." 

Clio  put  down  her  tea-cup,  which  was  of  fine  egg-shell 
china,  and  sat  up  very  straight. 

"Look  here,  Jessica,"  she  said  firmly,  "you  really  can 
carry  that  sort  of  thing  too  far.  You're  one  of  the  best,  and 
of  course  your  brother  is  a  genius  ;  but  between  you  you've  got 
hold  of  the  quaintest  ideas  and  people  don't  understand  them. 
Of  course  we  all  admire  the  famous  Knight  of  La  Mancha  in 
theory,  but  just  consider,  dear  sensible  little  woman  that  you 
are,  what  we  should  think  of  him  if  we  saw  him  riding  down 
the  Corso  on  Rosinante  ?  " 

Jessica  handed  her  guest  some  delicious-looking  foie  gras 
sandwiches.  She  felt  a  little  vexed  but  a  favourite  saying  of 
her  uncle's  flashed  across  her  mind — "  More  bees  are  caught 
in  honey  than  in  vinegar."  The  lines  round  her  sensitive 
mouth  relaxed  and  she  laughed. 

**And  so  even  you  look  on  Miles  as  a  modern  Don 
Quixote  ?  Simply  because  he  has  ordinarily  decent  views 
about  things?  Didn't  someone  in  the  long  ago  days  say — 
'  Defend  me  from  my  friends,  I  can  defend  myself  from  my 
enemies  '  ?  " 

Clio  made  ready  for  battle. 

"Ordinary  views?     You  think  your  brother's  views  on 
things  in  general — or  your  own  views  for   that    matter — 
5 


66 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


ordinary?  My  dear  child,  if  you  really  think  that  you 
must  know  very  little  about  the  world  in  which  you 
live." 

"Miles  is  not  ordinary,  of  course  I  know  that,  but  the 
reason  his  ideas,  some  of  them,  seem  peculiar  is  because  he 
is  accustomed  to  look  under  the  surface.  He  was  brought 
up  like  that.  Uncle  John  Fitzgerald,  our  guardian,  was 
greatly  interested  in  workers  of  all  kinds,  and  he  felt  very 
strongly  about  the  miserable  prices  doled  out  to  skilled 
workers — in  lace  and  embroidery  and  such  things.  He  did 
everything  he  could,  in  America  and  in  France,  to  induce  rich 
women  to  take  trouble  to  see  that  their  fine  work  was  done 
by  people  who  got  properly  paid  for  doing  it.  He  went  into 
the  matter  thoroughly  and  had  frightful  rows  with  some 
of  the  dressmakers  and  lingerie  people  in  Paris.  Miles  isn't 
half  such  a  fanatic  as  uncle  was  on  such  subjects,  but  of 
course  he  too  sees  that  you  women  of  the  world  might  do  no 
end  of  good  if  only  you  would  take  a  little  trouble.  You 
could  force  the  people  you  deal  with  to  pay  good  prices 
for  good  work  if  only  you  would  exert  yourselves  and 
insist." 

Mrs  Waring's  face  was  a  study. 

"  Insist?  With  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  people?  Oh,  Jessica, 
you  must  be  adorably  young !  You  ought  to  talk  to  Gabrielle 
Borizoff  if  you  want  that  sort  of  thing  done.  She  has  the 
courage  of  limitless  pin-money  and  a  sort  of  semi-royal 
position,  but  it's  no  use  expecting  anything  from  me.  If  I  find 
courage  to  '  insist '  on  having  a  black  gown  when  any  of  those 
people  want  it  to  be  white  I  flap  my  wings  and  cackle  loudly. 
You  don't  know  them,  my  child  :  you  carCt^  or  you  wouldn't 
talk  about  *  insisting.'" 

"Perhaps  not — but  I  know  Miles.  I  am  very  sure  the 
Parisian  dressmaker  has  not  yet  been  born  who  could  silence 
him,  if  he  felt  he  could  do  any  good  by  talking." 

"  I'm  sure  of  it !  He's  a  marvel,  but — I  wish  I  understood 
him.     He's  so  clever  —  so  extraordinarily,  exaggeratedly 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


67 


clever  that  he  might  simply  do  anything.  He  could  make 
heaps  and  heaps  of  money  if  only — " 

"  If  only  he  would  become  a  fashionable  portrait 
painter  ?  " 

"  Wellj  something  like  that.  You  know  it  really  is  not 
a  crime  to  make  people  look  as  they  want  to  look?  If  a 
person  pays  for  a  portrait  there's  no  reason,  so  far  as  I  can 
see,  why  he,  or  she,  shouldn't  have  the  sort  of  picture  he,  or 
she,  wants.  It's  only  a  matter  of  effective  backgrounds  and 
a  few  lines  taken  out,  or  stuck  in,  and  just  a  wee  cloud  of 
flattery.  What's  the  difficulty?  The  person  who  orders  the 
picture  is  pleased  and  the  painter  is  well  paid  for  his 
trouble?" 

"  But  so  very  many  portrait  painters  work  on  just  those 
lines  ?  " 

Yes — but  they  are  not  Miles  Bering !  You  know  he's 
a  thing  apart.  A  very  special  and  unique  individual.  He's 
magnetic,  everyone  says  that,  and  then  he's  abnormally  clever. 
He  has  the  ball  at  his  feet  if  only  he  would  take  the  trouble 
to  kick  it  off.  He  might  easily  become  a  very  wealthy  man 
indeed."  Jessica  folded  her  hands  quietly  and  laid  them  on 
her  lap,    She  shook  her  head. 

Miles  would  never  become  a  very  wealthy  man — not 
even  if  he  elected  to  follow  the  course  you  suggest.  He  has 
Uncle  Jack's  ideas  about  hoarding  money  or  even  spending 
more  than  his  fair  share.  If  he  made  large  sums  of  money 
he  would  certainly  give  the  greater  part  of  it  away." 

Give  it  away  ?  " 
"  Everything  beyond  the  sum  he  had  decided  was  his  own 
fair  share." 

"  My  dear  girl — but  this  is  absolute  lunacy  ! " 
"I  don't  think  so." 

Jessica's  smile  was  a  little  baffling  and  Clio  looked 
ruffled. 

But  it  is.  One  is  obliged  to  swim  with  the  current — or 
drown !     All  these  ideas  about  sharing   with   others  are 


68 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


beautiful  in  theory — but  who's  going  to  practise  them ;  and 
you  remember  the  old  question,  *What  is  one  among  so 
many?'  Why,  it's  a  well-known  fact  that  the  most  ardent 
socialistic  leaders  don't  scruple  to  enrich  themselves  at  the 
expense  of  their  followers.  They  preach  beautiful  and  most 
touching  abnegation,  but  do  they  practise  it — any  one  of 
them?" 

"  Miles  is  not  a  socialistic  leader  but  certainly  he  practises 
what  he  preaches.  Indeed,  he  never  preaches  at  all :  he  just 
does  what  he  considers  to  be  the  fair  thing." 

"  But  why  shouldn't  one  be  fair  to  oneself?  If  an 
Almighty  Being  has  given  us  special  talents,  don't  you  suppose 
He  intended  us  to  make  the  best  use  of  them  ?  Surely  if  a 
man  can  earn  a  lot  of  money  by  his  own  exertions  he  has  a 
perfect  right  to  spend  it  ?  "  Mrs  Waring  was  excited  and  a 
delicious  pink  flush  made  her  dimpled  cheeks  peachlike  as 
those  of  a  child :  she  was  firmly  convinced  that  it  would  be 
a  splendid  work  to  bring  Jessica  Bering,  and  her  brother,  if 
possible,  to  a  normal  state  of  mind. 

The  little  woman  of  the  wonderful  eyes  sat  back  in 
her  chair  and  looked  at  her  visitor  in  quiet  amusement :  she 
was  debating  in  her  mind  whether  it  was  worth  while  to  speak 
seriously.  She  was  fond  of  Clio  but  she  did  not  credit  her 
with  any  great  depth  of  understanding.    At  last  she  said  : 

"  He  has  a  right  to  spend  it — but  how  ?  On  himself?  Or 
even,  in  large  quantities,  on  persons  who  are  near  and  dear  to 
him  ?  It  is  a  question  we  all  have  to  consider — and  answer. 
For  Miles  the  question  is  not,  perhaps,  so  difficult  as  for  many 
others,  because  he  was  not  educated  in  an  ordinary  way. 
Uncle  Jack  had  very  decided  views  and  he  never  allowed 
them  to  sleep.  All  his  life  Miles  has  been  enveloped  in  them, 
and  it  would  be  strange  if  he  saw  things,  and  people,  as  others 
see  them.  Uncle  Jack's  motto  was  '  Live  and  help  live,'  and 
that's  all  Miles  tries  to  do.  It  seems  so  simple  that  one  would 
suppose  everyone  could  do  the  same  thing,  but — no !  They 
do  not — and  they  will  not.    Further  than  that,  they  jeer  at 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  69 


anyone  who  tries  to  do  it ;  even  you  think  that  Miles  is  a 
pleasant  sort  of  lunatic  ! 

The  peach  flush  deepened. 

^Tm  sure  I  don't."  Then,  under  the  dominion  of  the 
steadfast  eyes,  she  added  hastily,  think  he's  simply 
splendid — a  perfect  dear,  but  I  can't  help  wanting  him  to 
make  a  great  big  success  and  to  show  people  that  he's  right 
and  they're  wrong.  You  know  how  they  talk — some  of  these 
fools  here.  They  say  he's  a  charlatan  and  poseur  and  good- 
ness knows  what  else.  And  the  only  way  to  convince  them 
would  be  to  make  a  sensational  success  —  some  famous 
person's  portrait,  but  done  in  the  right  way,  you  know ! 
Something  gorgeous  and  exotic  !  He  could  do  it  if  only  he 
would,  but  he's  obstinate  as  a  Spanish  mule,  and  I  believe  you 
back  him  up."  Jessica  broke  into  infectious  laughter,  and  as 
she  laughed  her  face  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  very  young. 

"You  really  imagine  that  it  worries  Miles  to  know  that 
lots  of  people  call  him  a  '  charlatan '  and  insist  that  he  poses, 
in  season  and  out?  Oh— how  very  little  you  know  him. 
Miles  has  faults  in  plenty,  but  I  assure  you  that  amongst  them 
you  will  not  find  a  trace  of  smallness ;  and  I'm  afraid  you 
might  look  a  long  time  before  you  would  discover  a  trace  of 
humility  !  He  knows  very  well  what  is  due  to  him  and  to  his 
art,  and  when  the  right  moment  comes  he  will  take  possession 
of  his  kingdom — you  will  see." 

*^But  suppose  he  wants  to  marry — where  would  then  be 
his  magnificent  views  about  sharing  with  outsiders  ?  " 
Just  where  they  now  are." 

**Um — ?  I  think  that  would  depend  on  the  girl! 
Suppose — ^just  for  the  sake  of  argument — he  took  it  into  his 
head  to  fall  in  love  with  that  awfully  pretty  girl  he  is  going  to 
paint,  Violet  Hilliard?  Do  you  think  she  would  stand  the 
*  share'  business,  or  that  he  would  have  courage  to  try  to 
convert  herV^ 

"  Miss  Hilliard  ?  But  why  do  you  mention  her  name  in 
this  connection?" 


70 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


An  expression  of  fear,  almost  terror,  flashed  into  Jessica's 
eyes  and  Clio  felt  something  of  regret. 

"It  was  just  an  imaginary  case,"  she  said  quickly,  "but 
you  know  the  girl  is  wonderfully  lovely  and  your  impossible 
brother  has  made  a  great  concession  in  her  favour.  It's 
almost  as  hard  to  get  him  to  paint  a  woman's  portrait  as  to 
make  him  see  on  which  side  his  bread  is  buttered.  People 
have  begun  to  talk  about  the  picture  already  and  of  course 
the  talk  has  been  accompanied  by  the  inevitable  nod  and 
wink." 

Jessica  remained  silent  for  several  minutes.  Her  hands, 
long  and  delicately  formed,  were  clasped,  but  a  slight  nervous 
movement  was  apparent  in  the  fingers.  She  looked  straight 
into  her  visitor's  eyes,  as  though  silently  questioning  them. 
At  last  she  said  slowly : 

^^Miss  Hilliard's  aunt  is  a  friend  of  mine — she  and  I 
work  together,  in  several  directions,  in  Paris.  She  expressed 
a  wish  that  Miles  should  paint  her  niece's  portrait,  and  he, 
rather  unwillingly,  consented.  Miss  Hilliard,  the  aunt,  is  a 
splendid  woman  and  devotes  almost  all  her  time  to  what  you 
would  call  good  works !  I  have  the  greatest  respect  and 
esteem  for  her  and  I  begged  of  Miles  not  to  refuse  her 
request.  He  is  difficult  about  women's  portraits ;  he  doesn't 
care  about  doing  them." 

"But  why?" 

"  He  thinks  that  very  few  women  want  to  be  painted  as 
they  really  are;  they  want  something  artificial  and  what 
people  call  ^picturesque,'  and  he  isn't  any  good  at  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"  But  then  this  girl  is  really  amazingly  lovely.  If  he  simply 
paints  her  as  she  is  it's  bound  to  be  a  delicious  portrait.  Her 
colouring  is  unique." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is." 

"You  don't  like  her?" 

"  I  hardly  know  her." 

"  But  what  you  do  know  you  don't  like  ?  " 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


71 


Clio  was  insistent  and  again  the  grave  eyes  were  turned  on 
her  questioningly. 

She  is  very  attractive/* 

"  So  attractive  that  you're  half  afraid  he'll  fall  in  love  with 
her?" 

*  In  love ' !  What  a  phrase  !  What  has  love  to  do  with 
'in'  or  *out,'  Mrs  Waring?  Isn't  it  enough  to  say  that  it 
exists  or  doesn't  exist  ?  " 

Both  women  started  violently  and  a  flood  of  colour  stained 
Jessica's  pale  face. 

"  Miles,"  she  said  appealingly.  Then  she  shrank  back  into 
the  depths  of  her  arm-chair. 

Bering  advanced  into  the  room.  He  was  smiling  rather 
mischievously,  but  no  one  could  guess  from  his  face  how 
much  or  how  Httle  he  had  overheard.  He  looked  triumphant 
and  Clio  Waring  realized  afresh  the  compelling  qualities  of 
his  voice. 

It's  a  fascinating  old  fable — that  about  the  man  who  *  fell 
in  love '  as  he  was  setting  out  on  his  journey  and  '  fell  out ' 
and  '  in  *  and  *  out '  many  times  en  route^  and  who  hadn't  the 
ghost  of  an  idea  what  love  meant  when  the  time  came  for  him 
to  retire  to  his  narrow  mansion  in  Mother  Earth.  People 
never  tire  of  it.  Even  you,  Mrs  Waring !  You  who  are  an 
epitome  of  all  that  is  mysterious  and  occult !  Even  you 
believe  in  that  quaint,  old  idea  of  *  falling  in  love.'" 
"  And  why  not  ?  " 

Clio  had  recovered  from  the  momentary  shock  and  felt 
in  fine  fighting  form :  the  painter  had  the  power  to  awaken 
within  her  the  germs  of  argument. 

"  Because  falling  in  implies  the  possibility  of  falling  out, 
and  for  the  sentiment  which  can  be  worn  to-day  and  discarded 
to-morrow  you  must  find  some  other  name  than  Move.'" 

"  You  really  believe  in  these  deathless  passions  ?  These 
life-long-to-be-continued-in-another-world  love  affairs  ?  " 
Yes.    And  so  do  you  ?  " 

'^/;  " 


72 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


There  was  a  world  of  indignation,  and  not  a  little  con- 
tempt, in  the  single  word  and  Bering  laughed  delightedly. 
He  moved  towards  a  chair,  laying  a  slender  brown  hand 
caressingly  on  his  sister's  shoulder  in  passing,  and  poured 
out  a  cup  of  tea.  While  carefully  adding  butter  to  a  thin 
slice  of  toast  he  looked  up  into  Clio's  face. 

Don't!  I  know  you've  been  gathering  breath  for  a 
furious  denial,  but  let  me  remind  you  that  the  death  of 
Sapphira  was  an  inconvenient  one  for  all  concerned.  Your 
views  on  the  subject  of  love  are  sufficiently  sound :  you 
do  not,  like  your  friend  Madame  Borizoff,  believe  the  poor 
little  chap  should  be  stuck  up  on  a  pole  and  pelted  with 
epigrams ! " 

"  Oh  !  "  Clio's  restless  thoughts  crowded  into  a  fresh  path. 
Do  tell  me  what  you  think  of  her?    Isn't  she  lovely? 
Fascinating?  " 

"  *  Lovely '  ?  Not  quite  that,  but  very  handsome. 
*  Fascinating  '  ?  Perhaps — to  those  she  takes  the  trouble  to 
fascinate.  I  need  hardly  mention  that,  so  far,  1  have  had 
no  reason  to  consider  myself  connected  with  that  honoured 
band  ?  "    Clio  made  a  grimace. 

*'What  on  earth  was  wrong?"  she  said.  "You  two  were 
like  cats  on  a  house-top,  waiting  for  each  other  to  hiss 
and  watching  each  other  in  anticipation  of  the  first 
scratch  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  imagine  that  early  in  the  evening 
Madame  Borizoff  came  to  the  conclusion  I  was  an  impossible 
person.    That's  the  impression  she  gave  me." 

**It  was  very  odd  and  very  annoying.  I  never  saw  her 
like  that  before.  And  I  wanted  you  two  to  become  good 
friends :  I  wanted  it  very  much  indeed." 

Bering  laid  his  hand  softly  on  hers. 

"You're  a  little  angel ;  but — don't  lose  time  over  me.  I 
am,  as  your  friend  thinks,  'impossible.'  Of  course  I  know 
what  has  been  in  your  mind:  you've  wanted  to  arrange  for 
me  to  paint  Princess  Borizoff's  portrait.    You've  settled  it  all 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


73 


in  that  delicious,  scheming  mind  of  yours,  and  youVe  been 
impressed  by  the  idea  that  when  once  such  a  portrait  was 
executed — and  approved — things  would  march  to  the  tune 
of  *  See  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes  ' !  You're  the  sweetest 
and  dearest  of  women  and  just  as  lovely  as  ever  you  can  be — 
really  lovely^  not  merely  handsome — but  this  time  you've 
run  up  against  a  stone  wall,  and  there's  no  gate.  You've 
two  fighting  cats  to  deal  with  and  I'm  afraid  you'll  never 
make  a  comfy  home-tabby  of  either  of  us.  Madame  la 
Princesse  would  pull  out  her  remarkably  fine  eyelashes 
sooner  than  let  me  show  her  herself,  as  I  see  her,  and  as 
for  the  other  poor  cat — well,  he'd  sweep  a  crossing  before 
he'd  consent  to  paint  a  mask — however  handsome.  And  so 
there  we  are,  at  an  impasse ^ 

'*But  Gabrielle  doesn't  always  wear  a  mask.  She  can 
represent  sweetness  and  light  when  she  pleases." 

"  I  am  certain  of  it ;  but  then  you  yourself,  when  defending 
her,  use  the  word  *  represent '  ?  You  don't  say  she  is 
sweetness  and  light  ?  " 

Just  then  a  sound  of  voices  came  from  outside  and  Bering 
added  quickly,  "  I  forgot  to  say  that  Underwood,  Doyenbert 
and  Tuke  are  coming  in.  I  met  them  just  now  on  the  Piazza 
Farnese,  and  the  doctor  said  he  had  talked  himself  hoarse 
and  must  have  liquid  refreshment.  Poor  Tuke  looked  so 
dazed  that  I  surmise  he  has  had  enough  of  Art  for  one 
afternoon." 

Mrs  Waring  rose  hastily  and  started  to  rearrange  her  big 
grey  hat  before  an  oval  mirror. 

Miles  stood  near  and  with  an  air  of  great  seriousness, 
handed  her  a  pearl-studded  hat-pin. 

"  That  middle  curl  a  little  to  the  right,  I  think,"  he  said 
gravely.  ^' This  is  a  critical  moment.  The  'ins'  and  'outs' 
are  about  to  enter.    Or — are  they  both  still  '  ins '  ?  " 

Clio  caught  his  muscular  arm  and  pinched  it  viciously. 

"You  are  a  hateful  tease  and  I'll  let  you  have  it  all  back, 
with  interest :  you  may  be  sure  of  that." 


74  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  But  just  now  it  is  I  who  am  paying  off  a  small  debt. 
What  business  had  you  to  say  I  might  ''fall  in  love " 

Their  eyes  met  and  Clio's  colour  rose. 

"  He  knew  of  whom  we  were  talking,"  she  said  to 
herself. 


CHAPTER  VI 


DOCTOR  DOYENBERT  entered  the  room  with 
characteristic  alertness.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  with 
the  thinness  born  of  a  continued  strain  on  brain,  nerve  and 
muscle.  His  features  were  finely  cut  and  of  a  pure  Indian 
type,  and  his  delicate  hands,  the  fingers  long  and  exaggeratedly 
tapering,  were  of  Eastern  outline :  the  hands  of  a  Mystic 
dwelling  in  the  shadows  of  the  Himalayas. 

He  wore  a  dark  brown  tweed  suit,  and  the  coat  was  tight 
and  carefully  buttoned  up  as  the  coat  of  a  professional 
duellist. 

Indeed,  the  whole  man  suggested  an  eternal  duel :  a 
combat  in  which  his  hungry  intelligence  watched  for  oppor- 
tunities to  tear  from  his  fellows  some  cherished  secret.  As 
a  neurologist  his  reputation  was  European,  but  in  Paris,  and 
in  certain  circles  in  Rome,  he  was  equally  well-known  as  an 
Art  Critic  of  caustic  tongue  and  pen.  He  presented  a 
great  contrast  to  the  big  American  who  accompanied  him 
and  a  still  greater  contrast  to  the  fair-haired,  perfectly-groomed 
young  Englishman  who  entered  the  room  behind  the  older 
men.  Fenton  Tuke  was  in  the  diplomatic  service  and  had 
come  to  Rome  to  fill  the  post  of  secretary  at  the  British 
Embassy.  He  was  exceedingly  good-looking  and  though 
he  had  all  the  unexpected  reserves  of  his  kind  he  was  boyishly 
enthusiastic  on  two  subjects  :  the  charm  and  beauty  of  Mrs 
Waring  and  the  prowess  of  Miles  Bering.  Of  the  painter's 
art  he  knew  little  or  nothing,  but  so  great  was  his  admiration 
for  his  physical  dominion  that  he  never  ceased  to  sing  his 
praises  in  and  out  of  season. 

As  the  three  men  greeted  Jessica  and  her  guest  their 
75 


76  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


nationalities  stood  confessed.  Doyenbert,  agile  and  graceful 
as  a  snake,  kissed  Mrs  Waring's  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
homage  almost  theatrical  and  bowed  low  to  Jess.  Underwood 
clasped  each  small  hand  in  turn,  with  frank  warmth,  and 
Fenton  Tuke  shook  hands  quickly  and  drew  himself  up  as  he 
emitted  a  smothered    How'd  do,'* 

Doyenbert  sank  back  into  a  capacious  arm-chair  and 
glanced  across  the  room  at  Dering,  who  was  busying  himself 
with  bottles  and  glasses  which  had  been  brought  in  by  one  of 
the  velvet-footed  Japs. 

"  If  your  uncle  were  alive  and  in  my  place  he  would  ask 
a  big  price  for  his  thirst! " 

Dering  laughed,  though  a  shadow  passed  across  his  face. 
What  shall  it  be,  doctor?    A  highball  or  a  cocktail  ?  " 
Oh — a  highball,  by  all  means.    I  learned  to  love  them 
in  the  Rue  de  Douai." 

Dering  handed  him  a  long,  thin  glass  and  then  Chu  swiftly 
set  a  quaintly  carved  tray  between  the  other  men,  laid  a  single 
rose,  of  great  beauty  and  framed  in  glossy  leaves,  before  Mrs 
Waring,  then  bowed  low  and  withdrew. 

The  doctor  lifted  his  glass  greedily  and  then  paused.  He 
glanced  at  Dering  and  Underwood. 

"  Here's  to  Jack  Fitz,"  he  said,  as  he  held  the  glass  high 
and  then  drained  it. 

Dering  and  Underwood  followed  his  example  in  silence. 
It  was  the  old  toast  which  had  never  been  omitted  at  the 
suppers  in  the  Paris  flat.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence 
and  then  Mrs  Waring — who  had  been  admiring  the  rose- 
looked  up  and  said : 

"  How  on  earth  do  you  manage  to  keep  those  delightful 
Japs  in  such  perfect  order  ?  I  have  never  seen  such  well-trained 
servants  :  they  do  everything  just  at  the  right  time  and  in  the 
right  way  and  no  one  ever  seems  to  give  them  an  order." 

Dering  laughed. 

"  I  don't  keep  them  in  order :  they  just  manage 
themselves." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


77 


"  Are  you  responsible — then  ?  Clio  had  turned,  in  some 
surprise,  to  her  hostess,  who  greeted  the  question  with  open 
ridicule. 

Not  at  all!  Pm  only  a  visitor  and  Cha  and  Chu 
belong  to  Miles — souls,  bodies,  thoughts  and  everything,  I 
think.  They  understand  him,  if  anyone  does,  and  they  study 
his  tastes  and  moods  and  his  wants  and  his  needs.  The 
queer  little  creatures  seem  to  exist  solely  for  the  purpose  of 
making  things  agreeable  for  him." 

"  Have  you  magnetized  them  ?  " 

The  painter  nodded. 

"That — first:  and  then  I  have  knocked  them  about  and 
proved  to  them  that  I,  and  I  only,  am  their  Master  !  It's 
the  only  way  to  manage  servants." 

Clio  looked  at  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"I  don't  see  that  Sapphira  was  half  such  a  sneak  as 
Ananias  ! " 

"I  don't  suppose  there  was  much  to  choose  between 
them." 

"  Agreed !  And  now  tell  me  how  you  have  worked  this 
miracle?  In  this  age  when  no  one  can  do  anything  with 
servants  except  pay  them  enormous  wages  and  then  do  their 
work,  how  do  you,  even  you^  manage  to  possess  such 
treasures  ?  " 

"  I  have  them  with  me  because  they  insisted  on  coming 
back  with  me  from  Japan,  and  they  are  treasures — well, 
really  I  believe  it's  because  the  queer  little  chaps  love  me." 

Clio  looked  at  her  rose  contemplatively.  She  was  thinking 
that  there  was  something  remarkable  about  the  way  in  which, 
apparently  unconsciously.  Miles  Bering  attracted  love.  He 
seemed  the  comrade,  as  well  as  the  worshipper,  of  the  little 
blind  god.  More  than  once  her  friend,  Bianca  della  Rocca, 
by  no  means  an  effusive  woman,  had  spoken  in  terms  of 
enthusiasm  of  the  Cardinal's  affection  for  the  painter  and  of 
the  strong  bond  of  affection  which  united  her  invalid  husband 
to  the  man  who  seemed  the  embodiment  of  health  and 


78  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


vigour.  The  most  unexpected  people  waxed  eloquent  over 
Bering  and  yet,  notwithstanding  his  great  charm  of  manner, 
there  always  seemed  to  be  a  wall  of  reserve  between  him 
and  others — even  his  most  intimate  friends.  She  found  herself 
wondering  if  that  wall  was  really  impregnable  ?  Could  that 
reserve,  inherited  and  acquired,  be  broken  down  —  and  by 
whom  ? 

Doyenbert  had  been  speaking  to  Jessica  but  at  that 
moment  he  turned  round. 

We  have  just  seen  your  friend  Princess  Eorizoff.  What 
a  woman !  Imperious  as  Poppaea  and  quite  as  beautiful. 
She  whirled  across  the  Piazza  in  a  carriage,  with  three  black 
horses  driven  abreast  and  everyone  turned  to  look  at  her  just 
as  if  she  were  an  Empress." 

Clio  looked  a  little  confused.  A  thought,  not  a  pleasant 
one,  had  flashed  across  her  mind. 

She  hesitated  a  second,  then  said : 

**0f  course  you  know  that  Madame  Borizoff  has  your 
*  Russia'?" 

"Madame  Borizoff?" 

Bering's  tone  expressed  such  exceeding  surprise  that 
Clio's  colour  rose.  She  guessed  that  her  friend  had  purposely 
refrained  from  speaking  to  the  painter  of  his  picture. 

"Yes.  Some  Russian  friend  sent  it  to  her  a  day  or  two 
ago,  I  think." 

Boyenbert  interfered. 

"Buveen  sold  it  to  Comte  Boris  de  Romanoff — he  told 
me  so.  And  it  is  now  in  the  possession  of  the  Empress  of 
the  Villa  Borizoff!  I  wonder  what  she  thinks  of  it:  do  you 
happen  to  know  ?  " 

The  question  was  addressed  to  Mrs  Waring  but  for  a 
second  she  did  not  reply;  she  was  bitterly  regretting  the 
ungracious  omission  which  had  brought  that  slight  frown  to 
Bering's  straight  brows.    Then  she  said  : 

"Of  course  she  is  enthusiastic  about  it.  Who  could  help 
being  thatT 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


79 


Doyenbert's  laugh  was  not  quite  pleasant. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  some  of  the  things  they  said 
about  it  in  Paris." 

"  What  things  ?  And  who  do  you  mean  by  *  they '  ?  " 

Bering — ever  quick  to  recognize  unexpressed  thoughts — 
saw  that  both  speakers  were,  from  different  causes,  irritated. 
He  was  about  to  throw  himself  into  the  breach  when  his 
attention  was  arrested  by  the  silent  entrance  of  one  of  the 
servants  in  dark-blue  linen.  Chu  handed  him  a  twisted  note 
and  waited  with  folded  hands  and  downcast  eyes.  Bering, 
with  a  word  of  apology,  opened  the  note  and  read  it.  He 
looked  distressed,  even  disconcerted.  He  hesitated  and  then 
handed  the  letter  to  his  sister,  who  read  it  and  then  looked  at 
him  for  a  decision. 

can  go  alone,"  she  said,  speaking  very  low;  "perhaps, 
I  almost  think,  it  would  be  better  ?  " 

The  bronze  of  Bering's  face  was  slightly  tinged  with  red 
and  as  the  twisted  paper  was  returned  to  him  he  un- 
consciously crushed  it  out  of  shape.  Jessica  went  on — *M 
can  explain  :  she  really  has  no  right  to  ask  such  a  thing." 

"No.  And  for  that  reason — "  Bering  wheeled  round 
suddenly.  "  Mrs  Waring,  will  you  be  very  kind  to  me  ?  Will 
you  play  hostess  for  quarter  of  an  hour  ?  I  am  called  away, 
and  my  sister  also  ?  " 

Clio  nodded.  Then,  as  Bering  and  his  sister  passed  out, 
she  looked  at  Fenton  Tuke. 

"Where  were  you  going  this  morning  in  such  a  hurry? 
To  the  Bristol  ?  " 

He  made  a  sign  of  assent. 

"Yes.  Madame  de  Brissac  asked  me  to  dejeuner^  with 
the  Chief,  and  I  sat  so  long  talking  to  Bering  in  a  cafe  that  I 
was  awfully  late.  I  felt  very  much  inclined  to  ask  you  to  give 
me  a  lift  when  you  drove  by." 

He  was  sitting  very  close  to  Clio,  on  a  low  stool,  and 
Underwood  sighed  impatiently  as  he  watched  the  two  animated 
faces.    There  were  some  years  between  their  ages,  but  the 


8o 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


widow  looked  extraordinarily  young.  Doyenbert  looked  up 
sharply. 

"  Did  you  tell  Madame  de  Brissac  that  it  was  Bering  who 
delayed  you  ?  ' 

^'  Yes ;  I  did  mention  it. ' 

And  what  did  she  say?'' 

Oh— lots  of  things." 
"  Unpleasant  ?  " 

Rather.'' 

The  single  word,  shot  out  as  from  a  catapult,  seemed 
composed  of  equal  parts  of  exasperation  and  annoyance,  and 
Mrs  Waring  joined  Underwood  in  a  burst  of  gay  laughter. 

"You  are  worse  than  a  K.C.,  doctor.  You  have  no  mercy 
on  an  unhappy  witness  when  you  get  him  into  the  box." 
Doyenbert  joined  in  the  laugh. 

^'Je  demande  pardon^^^  he  said.  "I  had  no  right  to  ask 
questions,  but  Madame  la  Comtesse  does  not  agree  with  my 
nerves.  She  says  abominable  things  about  Dering  and  will 
harm  him  if  she  can.  Of  course  he  will  soon  be  in  such  a 
position  that  neither  she  nor  anyone  like  her  can  hurt  him, 
but  all  the  same  mud  sticks — if  your  aim  is  good  and  you  do 
not  mind  soiling  your  own  hands  by  throwing  it." 

"You  think  he  will  soon  be  recognized  as  a  great  artist?  " 
Underwood  asked  the  question  in  a  tone  of  genuine  interest 
which  the  critic  did  not  fail  to  appreciate. 

"I  do  not  think.  I  know.  It  must  come,  soonet  or 
later,  and  I  believe  it  will  be  much  sooner  than  even  he 
himself  suspects.  I  have  my  plans.  I  will  not  speak  of 
them  now,  but  they  march." 

Underwood  bent  forward  with  considerable  eagerness. 

"  I  have  often  wanted  to  hear  you  talk  about  Dering's  art. 
You  understand  it  and  you  understand  him.  Your  views 
would  be  very  valuable." 

Doyenbert  squared  his  shoulders  and  rested  his  sensitive 
hands  on  his  knees. 

"He  is  a  genius,"  he  said,  "and  he  is  an  Irishman: 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


8i 


there  you  have  the  germs  of  the  crux.  It  is  the  usual  thing 
to  call  him  eccentric — even  a  poseur^  but  those  who  think  he 
paints  otherwise  than  as  he  sees  se  trompent  lourdement.  His 
originality  is  nourished  by  a  determination  to  express  nothing 
that  has  not  penetrated  into  his  mind  and  into  his  heart.  His 
uncle,  as  you  well  know,  was  possessed  by  rhorreur  de  tout 
mensonge^  and  Miles  is  the  same.  He  was  the  friend  and,  in 
a  sense,  the  pupil  of  Eugene  Carriere,  and  though  Carriere 
walked  calmly  towards  a  goal  which  was  to  him  luminous, 
he  remained  always,  for  those  about  him,  intangible  and 
mysterious  as  life  itself." 

The  words  were  spoken  with  a  sort  of  suppressed  en- 
thusiasm which  kindled  a  flame  in  the  hearts  of  the  listeners. 

never  met  Carriere,"  Underwood  said,  "but  I  was  at 
the  opening  of  the  Salon  of  1906,  when  his  pictures  were 
gathered  into  one  room.  I  found  him  hard  to  understand 
but  his  work  impressed  me  greatly." 

"  You  were  there  that  day  ?  And  you  saw  those  fools — 
those  soulless  idiots  who  stood  about  and  stared  ?  They  did 
not  dare  to  laugh  aloud  as  they  have  laughed  at  Rodin,  for 
Carriere  was  dead,  and  the  laurel  wreaths  made  them  suspect 
that  there  must  have  been  something  in  his  pictures  besides — 
fog!" 

"But  he  did  paint  things  and  people  in  a  sort  of  mist, 
didn't  he?  A  sort  of  colourless  mist  which  was  very  effec- 
tive ? "  Doyenbert  fixed  his  brilliant  eyes  on  the  speaker. 
He  was  imbued  with  the  idea  that  the  average  woman  knew 
nothing  of  Art. 

**Yes,  Mrs  Waring,  he  often  enveloped  *  things  and 
people '  in  a  sort  of  mist,  and  the  crowd  has  always  insisted 
that  he  did  it  to  make  a  sensational  effect ;  just  as  it  accused 
Puvis  de  Chavannes  of  intentionally  distorting  Nature.  What 
applies  to  the  colour  of  Carriere  applies  to  the  drawing  of 
Puvis  :  the  crowd  will  never  realize  that  the  originality  of  an 
artist's  language  is  justified  by  the  amount  of  perception  and 
thought  he  is  able  to  express  in  it." 
6 


82 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Underwood  drew  a  long  breath. 

**This  is  splendid,"  he  said  warmly.  "One  cannot  follow 
it  all,  but  you  give  us  something  to  think  about  and,  in  a  way, 
you  help  us  to  understand  Bering." 

"  If  you  understand  the  man  you  will  find  it  easy  to 
understand  the  artist.  Bering  has  been  trained  to  work  on 
a  foundation  of  big  ideas.  His  art  is — or  will  be  when  it  is 
perfected — an  expression  of  his  communion  with  the  universal 
human  spirit.  Those  who  designate  as  far  fetched  Carriere's 
idea  of  finding  in  a  single  art  all  the  elements  of  human 
existence  have  forgotten  that  the  same  idea  animated  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  Albert  Diirer  and  Michelangelo.  Some  of  the  critics 
in  Paris  have  said — especially  in  connection  with  Bering's 
portrait  of  myself — that  he  slavishly  follows  in  the  steps  of 
Carriere  and  does  not  take  the  trouble  to  draw !  But  what 
do  these  persons  understand  by  le  dessin  ?  Bo  they  suppose 
it  merely  to  mean  a  silhouette  which  indicates  the  form  of  an 
object?  Such  artists  as  Carriere,  Ingres  and — though  he  is 
still  only  a  student — Bering,  attack  the  task  of  drawing  by 
marking  out  the  prominences,  the  curves,  the  hollows  and  the 
reliefs,  and  in  that  way  they  bring  out  the  form  itself  instead 
of  trying  to  produce  it  by  a  line,  which  is  at  best  only  the 
indication  of  the  form.  They  worked,  and  he  works,  on  the 
lines  of  the  sculptor. 

Mrs  Waring  was  listening  intently  and  as  the  critic  paused, 
Fenton  Tuke,  who  was  still  sitting  on  the  low  stool,  nursing 
his  knees,  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  The  Chief  knows  a  good  deal  about  Art  and  he  says  he 
believes  Bering  to  be  possessed  by  the  madness  of  genius." 

"  *  Madness  of  genius '  ?  But  that  sort  of  madness  does 
not  exist.  Lombroso  used  to  insist  on  something  of  the  sort 
but  the  idea  is  absurd.  True  genius  is  order  itself :  the 
concentration  of  well-balanced  faculties.  Again  and  again 
people  have  declared  Rodin's  work  to  be  that  of  an  exalte  if 
not  of  a  madman.  Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Rodin  is  a 
particularly  sane  man  :  he  is  not  even  a  dreamer.    He  is  calm 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


83 


and  self-possessed  as  a  mathematician.  There  is  much  that 
is  exalted  in  his  work,  as  in  Carriere's,  and,  in  embryo,  in 
Bering's,  but  it  is  the  exaltation  which  one  finds  in  Nature, 
if  we  know  where  to  look  for  it." 

"But  don't  you  think  that  inspiration  comes  most  fre- 
quently to  people  who  are  just  a  little  mad  on  some  subject 
or  another? " 

Clio  spoke  excitedly  and  Tuke  nodded  in  approval. 
Doyenbert  wheeled  round  his  chair  and  faced  them. 

Chere  Madame^  what  do  you  mean  by  'inspiration'?'' 
She  opened  wide  her  star-like  eyes. 

"Inspiration?  But  of  course  everyone  knows  what  it 
means.  It's  the  intangible  something  that  urges  people  to  do 
great  and  wonderful  things." 

" '  The  intangible  something '  that  is  supposed  to  enable 
an  inexperienced  student  to  create  a  masterpiece  in  a  single 
night?  It  is  always  at  night  these  things  happen,  I  notice. 
And  then  the  '  inspiration  '  of  love,  of  which  we  hear  so  much. 
What  does  that  amount  to  ?  Just  this — un  homme  qui  aime 
trop  les  femmes  est  perdu  :  cela  suffii  I  " 

"  I  hope,  doctor,  that  that  does  not  always  hold  good — 
taking  the  word  femme  instead  of  fem77ies?  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  one  of  these  days  our  friend  Bering  will  take  the 
love  fever — rather  badly.  He's  not  a  fellow  for  half  measures 
in  anything ;  when  he  falls  in  love  I  believe  he  will  do  it  with 
all  his  heart  and  strength."  The  doctor  emitted  his  character- 
istic sniff,  which  was  half  a  snort. 

"Very  likely — and  it  will  be  the  worst  thing  that  ever 
happened  to  him,  for  I  have  a  certain  conviction  that  he  will 
select  the  wrong  woman.  Carriere's  wife  was  necessary  to 
him — she  was  the  complement  of  his  own  personality ;  but 
Bering  is  another  type  and  he  is  a  headstrong  beggar." 

Mrs  Waring  and  Tuke  were  exchanging  laughing  whispers, 
and  as  Underwood  glanced  at  them  he  noticed  that  the  young 
man  had  possessed  himself  of  some  violets  which  had  fallen 
from  those  at  her  breast.    They  seemed  very  happy  and  the 


84 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


American  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders  with  an  air  of 
unwilling  resignation.  He  forced  himself  to  look  away  and 
to  take  up  again  the  vexed  subject  of  inspiration. 

"  Come,  doctor,  you  must  not  be  too  cynical.  Even  if  we 
admit  that  you  are  right  about  the  inspiration  of  love — and  I 
for  one  am  not  prepared  to  admit  it — what  about  the  inspira- 
tion of  great  deeds  and  great  works?  Have  you  not  often 
watched  the  eager  faces  of  the  enthusiastic  young  artists  who 
throng  the  churches  and  galleries  here?  Do  you  not  admit 
that  they  derive  inspiration  from  what  they  see  ?  " 

"  I  admit  that  some  of  them  imagine  they  do  !  Oh,  yes,  I 
know  them  well,  these  wonderful  young  enthusiasts  who  haunt 
the  museums.  They  stand  about  and  stare  and  then  rush 
out  and  fall  on  one's  neck,  shrieking  *  Eureka !  We  are  in- 
spired. We  are  transformed.  We  have  acquired  a  new  soul ! 
A  Japanese  soul,  or  a  Raphael  soul,  or  a  Botticelli  soul !  We 
are  going  to  do  wonders  with  our  new  souls  and  our  inspira- 
tions.' I  know  them  very  well  indeed,  these  enthusiasts  you 
so  much  admire,  and  often  I  have  said  to  them — *  Oh,  yes,  my 
young  friends,  you  have  indeed  acquired  a  new  soul,  but  it  is 
the  soul  of  a  thief!'  It  was  not  *  inspiration,'  believe  me, 
that  has  taught  Bering  the  essential  fact  that  behind  the 
apparent  man  it  is  necessary  to  seek  for  the  real  man.  Or 
that  in  portrait  painting  it  is  necessary  to  look  for  the  character, 
which  alone  decides  destiny.  Or  that  it  is  necessary  to  do 
much  more  than  merely  copy  the  superficial  aspect  of  a  face. 
From  a  close  study  of  Nature  and  Nature's  laws  he  has 
learned,  or  is  learning,  the  truth  about  Art.  He  is  well 
aware  that  the  French  school,  from  Clouet  to  Latour,  offers 
a  series  of  portraits  which  are  spirited  and  full  of  delicate 
observation  but  none  the  less  social  portraits  :  portraits  of  men 
and  women  who,  under  the  eyes  of  their  fellows,  are  watching 
themselves  and  trying  to  seem  at  their  best.  He  has  learned 
that  the  head  is  defined  by  its  bony  structure  :  that  one  must 
build  it  up  before  one  can  give  it  life,  and  that  the  play  of 
features  is  only  a  grimace  which  is  isolated  from  the  permanent 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


85 


character.  He  is  a  great  admirer  of  the  French  school,  but 
I  base  my  belief  on  his  future  on  the  fact  that  he  has  realized 
the  essential  and  cast  aside  conventions.  He  is  still  a  student 
but  even  now  it  is  necessary  for  him,  when  painting  a  portrait, 
to  try  and  surprise  in  his  model  everything  that  is  profound 
and  essential :  everything  that  makes  for  character.  Already 
he  has  the  habit  of  watching  his  model  until  he  forgets  him- 
self: until  he  drops  his  mask  and  goes  back  to  the  freedom  of 
solitude.'' 

"By  Jove!'' 

The  exclamation  broke  from  Fenton  Tuke  and  he  sat  up 
very  erect.  Doyenbert  put  up  his  glass  and  looked  at  the 
boyish  face. 

"  You  are  thinking — ?  "  he  said  questioningly. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  that  I  am  not  at  all  sure  anyone  has 
the  right  to  take  anyone  else  by  surprise  like  that." 

"  Of  course  no  one  has  the  right."  Clio  spoke  with  great 
decision.  "No  one — even  Miles  Bering — has  the  right  to 
poke  his  way  behind  the  scenes  in  that  way.  When  people 
make  up  their  minds  to  have  a  portrait  done  they  make  up 
their  minds  how  they  want  to  look,  and  if  they  are  paying  for 
the  deal  they  have  the  right  to  declare." 

There  was  a  general  laugh  and  Underwood  looked  at  the 
sparkling  face  with  eyes  full  of  admiration. 

"There  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  for  that  point  of  view," 
he  said.  "  After  all,  it  is  not  the  artist  who  has  to  live  with 
the  portrait.  Great  indeed  is  my  admiration  for  your  learn- 
ing, but  I  must  say  I  agree,  in  the  main,  with  Mrs  Waring  and 
Tuke.  I  think  people  have  the  right  to  decide  how  they  wish 
to  look  in  a  portrait,  and  if  they  chose  to  adopt  what  you  call 
a  *  social '  appearance,  I  can  see  no  real  reason  why  the  artist 
should  not  reproduce  that  appearance." 

"  It  has  never  occurred  to  you  that  if  painting  is  to  become 
nothing  more  than  an  exact  reproduction  of  things  actually 
seen,  the  Art  will  disappear  when  photography  in  colour 
becomes  perfect  ?  " 


86 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Photography?  But  that  is,  of  course,  quite  another 
thing.  A  merely  mechanical  process  which  has  very  little  to 
do  with  art  at  all." 

''A  process  which  is  sometimes  not  considered  sufficiently 
flattering,  and  so  the  Art  of  the  fashionable  portrait-painter  is 
called  in.'' 

"That  is  very  severe.'' 

"  My  dear  sir,  it  is  the  simple  truth.  The  very  last  thing 
the  average  person  desires  is  to  be  painted  as  he,  or  she,  really 
is.  It  is  a  mask — of  one  kind  or  another — that  is  demanded, 
and  I  have  already  said  that  it  is  useless  to  ask  Miles  Bering 
to  paint  masks  for,  thank  God,  he  does  not  know  how  to  do  it." 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  Bering  came  in 
alone. 

A  thousand  apologies.  My  sister  has  been  called  away 
to  see  some  one,  a  friend  who  is  ill  and  alone." 

Mrs  Waring  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Nina  Cantalli  ?  "  she  asked. 

Bering  nodded. 
She  is  very  ill  ?    Seriously  ?  " 

"The  throat  trouble  is  serious.  I  am  afraid  she  will  not 
Sjing  again,  at  least,  not  for  a  long  time  to  come." 

Clio's  eyes  met  those  of  Tuke.  The  same  thought  flashed 
across  both  minds.  The  pretty  singer  had  already  cost  the 
painter  something.  He  and  his  sister  had  done  much  for  her, 
and  Bering  personally  had  used  his  influence  to  get  her 
engagements — in  Paris  and  in  Rome.  His  name  had  been 
linked  with  hers,  and  in  no  kindly  way.  Men,  and  women 
too,  had  not  hesitated  to  sneer  at  the  blindness  of  the  sister 
and  the  audacity  of  the  brother.  Prince  Platofl"  had  set  the 
ball  rolling  and,  more  than  once,  his  friend  the  Comtesse  de 
Brissac  had  kept  it  in  rapid  motion.  Miles  Bering  was  a 
man  to  be  loved  or  hated.  His  personality  was  too  distinctive 
to  admit  of  half  measures :  people  were  with  him,  heart  and 
soul  or  —  they  were  against  him.  And  even  those  who 
liked  him  best  often  found  him  hard  to  understand.    He  was 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


87 


a  prince  of  good  fellows  but  he  was  able,  in  a  moment,  to 
close  the  doors  behind  which  dwelt  his  real  thoughts  and 
feelings.    And  those  doors  were  impassive  as  iron. 

Underwood  had  heard  something  of  the  gossip  about 
Bering  and  the  singer  and,  to  make  a  diversion,  he  broke  in : 
should  like  very  much  to  visit  your  studio  if  Mrs 
Waring  has  no  objection?    I  understand  that  the  doctor's 
portrait  is  there  now,  and  I  am  particularly  anxious  to  see  it." 

Miles  assented  at  once  and  held  the  door  open  for  Mrs 
Waring  to  pass  out. 

**Jess  hopes  you  won't  think  her  very  rude  ?'^  he  said  as 
he  walked  by  her  side  down  the  wide  stone  corridor  and 
paused  a  moment  at  an  arched  window  overlooking  the  little 
garden  fringing  the  Tiber.  "  That  poor  girl  is  in  a  sad  state 
and  cannot  bear  to  be  alone — or  with  strangers. '^ 

Clio  looked  round  stealthily.  Then,  seeing  that  the  three 
men  had  not  yet  left  the  sitting-room,  she  said  impulsively  : 

**You  and  Jessica  are  just  too  good  for  this  wicked  old 
world !  You  have  lovely  thoughts  and  ideas  about  things, 
and  you  never  realize  that  other  people  are  made  of  different 
stuff.  Of  course  I  know  it's  not  my  business,  but  really — 
really  people  have  been  saying  rather  awful  things  about  Nina 
Cantalli — and  you.  I  don't  know  if  you  mind  about  it 
but  I  have  always  wanted  to  tell  you." 

Miles  stood  still  and  looked  down  at  her :  very  seriously 
and  as  if  in  contemplation.  Then  he  turned  his  eyes,  dark 
and  dreamy,  towards  the  great  laurel  bushes  which  surrounded 
and  almost  hid  the  basin  of  the  fountain  in  the  centre  of  the 
garden.  For  several  moments  he  was  silent.  Then  he  said 
quietly : 

"  I  don't  belong  to  the  fashionable  world  but  you  can 
hardly  suppose  that  I'm  entirely  in  ignorance  of  what  goes 
on  round  me  ?  You  can  hardly  suppose  that  I'm  unaware 
of  the  fact  that  here,  and  in  Paris  too,  people  have  paid  me 
the  compliment  of  taking  for  granted  that  I  find  my  sister's 
interest  in  young  artists  very  convenient?    That  I  have, 


88 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


naturally  without  hesitation,  sent  her  out  to  pick  up  rare  and 
seductive  morsels  for  my  personal  delectation  ?  " 

The  colour  rose  in  Clio's  face. 

'*But  that's  a  horrible  way  of  putting  it." 

"Very  horrible  but  the  true  way." 

There  was  a  pause.    Then  Clio  said  inconsequently  : 
But  this  girl  is  really  wonderfully  attractive." 

"  *  Et  tu  Brute '  ? " 

The  trite  old  saying  passed  through  lips  that  were  curved 
in  a  baffling  smile  and  the  woman  felt  confused. 

"  Of  course  /  have  never  said  anything.  I  don't  believe 
I  have  even  thought  very  much,  but  all  the  same  one  cannot 
get  away  from  the  fact  that  human  nature  is  human  nature." 

"And  you  designate  *  human'  an  action  of  which  a  devil 
might  well  be  ashamed  ?  " 

"Mr  Bering!" 

There  was  indignation  and  surprise  and  something  like 
fear  in  the  exclamation,  but  voices  sounded  in  the  distance 
and  Miles  made  some  laughing  remark  to  Doyenbert  as  he 
led  the  way  down  the  corridor. 

The  studio  was  immense — one  of  those  spacious  rooms 
with  which  Rome  abounds. 

It  had  a  carved  ceiling  overlaid  with  stucco  and  the  walls, 
almost  bare,  were  covered  with  stretched  canvas  of  the  same 
grey-blue  tint  as  that  which  covered  the  walls  of  Jessica's 
sitting-room.  On  the  floor  there  were  some  large  rush-mats 
and  a  few  rugs  of  great  size  and  rare  beauty.  Near  the  high 
windows  which  were  quaintly  curtained  in  tussor  silk  and 
Indian  muslin  there  were  two  pedestals  of  carved  ebony  on 
which  stood  pots  of  curious  design  and  gorgeous  colours. 
There  were  many  comfortable  arm-chairs  of  plaited  canes  and 
rushes,  one  or  two  solid  tables  covered  with  papers  of  various 
kinds,  and  two  upright  easels.  Standing  against  the  sides  of 
the  room  there  were  several  big  cases  which  held  sketches 
and  studies,  and  at  one  end  a  light  wood  frame  had  been 
fastened  in  the  wall  to  hold  a  dozen  or  more  broadswords  and 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


89 


foils ;  close  by,  in  professional  style,  there  were  shelves,  with 
closed  compartments,  for  masks  and  jackets,  etc. 

It  was  a  thoroughly  workmanlike  room,  in  spite  of  its  air 
of  comfort  and  aesthetic  charm. 

When  Bering  held  open  the  great  door,  arched  and 
roughly  carved,  for  Clio  to  enter,  she  stood  still  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm  to  indicate  silence.  One  of  the  Japanese 
servants  was  standing  by  a  window,  arranging  a  few  branches 
of  Gloire  de  Dijon  roses  in  a  porcelain  pot,  and  he  made  an 
attractive  picture.  The  little  figure,  lithe  and  graceful,  was 
costumed  in  a  short  linen  jacket,  with  wide  sleeves,  long  tight 
drawers  reaching  to  the  ankles,  of  the  same  dark  blue  tint 
as  the  coat,  and  white  digitated  stockings  which  showed  up 
brilliantly  against  the  straw  sandals  laced  with  palmetto-fibre. 
His  whole  attention  was  concentrated  on  the  flowers  and  as 
he  lightly  posed  one  gracious  branch,  heavy  with  golden 
blossoms  and  dark  green  leaves,  in  such  a  manner  that  it 
communed  deliciously  with  the  delicate  tints  of  the  tussor 
curtains  in  the  background,  he  stepped  back  and  un- 
consciously clasped  his  hands.  Bering  looked  down  at  Mrs 
Waring  and  smiled.  He  made  with  his  Hps  a  curious  little 
noise  that  resembled  the  twitter  of  a  bird  and  Chu  turned  and 
saw  him.  The  little  figure  in  blue  glided  silently  towards  the 
door  and  there  stood  motionless  for  a  second  or  two.  Again 
Bering  made  a  soft,  bird  call  and  Chu  vanished. 

"  Bid  you  ever  see  anything  Hke  it !  " 

Clio  Waring  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and 
staring  at  the  painter  with  wide-open  eyes.  Is  that  how  you 
talk  to  them  ? 

"Sometimes." 

"  But  how  did  you  make  them  understand  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Oh — I  don't  know  that  I  had  very  much  to  do  with 
that.  Chu  used  to  live  with  my  friend,  Takeda,  in  Yedo,  and 
Takeda  was  an  extraordinary  chap  in  many  ways  :  he  had  no 
end  of  funny  little  tricks,  and  one  of  them  was  a  sort  of  bird 
language  which   he   invented   himself.      I   picked   it  up, 


90  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


more  or  less,  and  Chu  understands  it  better  than  spoken 
words." 

"  But  how  do  you  do  it  ?  " 

Bering  laughed.  He  stood  straight  before  her  and  bent 
down  his  head. 

"Just  imagine  you  are  going  to  give  someone  a  kiss.  Not 
me,  of  course''' — this  in  answer  to  her  slightly  heightened 
colour — "  but  any  worthy  person  who  may  suggest  himself  to 
you !  Now  press  the  tip  of  your  tongue  very  lightly  against 
your  teeth  and  do  this."  He  made,  very  softly  and,  at  first, 
slowly,  a  series  of  little  twittering  sounds.  Clio  tried  to 
imitate  them  but  failed  dismally.  Again  he  gave  the  lesson, 
and  Fenton  Tuke  looked  on  with  eager  interest. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  she  said  petulantly.  "I  believe  you  have 
something  in  your  mouth.  No  one  could  make  those  noises 
just  with  their  lips." 

The  painter's  brows  rose  in  an  arch  of  interrogation. 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  about  that.  Lips  are  tricky  things. 
One  never  can  tell  what  they  may  do,  or  leave  undone." 

Clio  threw  up  her  head  and  walked  away  from  the  two  men. 

With  an  air  of  great  determination  she  joined  Doyenbert 
and  the  American,  who  were  standing  before  an  easel  to 
which  was  clamped  the  full-length  portrait  of  a  man.  It  was 
a  strange  picture :  sombre  and  restrained,  yet  full  of  vigour. 
It  was  the  neurologist,  with  his  soul  laid  bare !  The  form 
and  features  seemed  barely  defined,  but  the  spirit  of  the  man 
stood  confessed :  the  deathless  vitality,  the  restless  curiosity, 
the  Oriental  insensibility  to  pain,  in  others  or  in  himself.  It 
had  been  called  a  ''portrait  of  nerves,"  and  the  title,  given  in 
contempt,  was  sufficiently  apt.  Of  colour,  as  colour  is  gener- 
ally understood,  there  was  none.  The  mysterious  brown 
figure — exaggeratedly  tall  and  emaciated — melted  into  a  back- 
ground of  velvet  blackness.  The  face,  in  which  the  restless 
nerves  seemed  painfully  close  to  the  surface,  was  pallid  and 
brown,  and  so  were  the  thin  hands.  The  whole  picture  gave 
an  impression  of  tumult  and  unrest. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


91 


Underwood  looked  at  it  long  and  steadily. 

It  is  amazing,"  he  said  at  last.      But  do  you  like  it  ? 
Doyenbert  laughed. 

"  Like  it  ?  I  should  say  so.  It  is  a  masterpiece,  and  if 
the  man  who  painted  it  ever  permits  himself  to  become 
*  popular'  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  strangle  him  with  my  own 
hands.  That^  my  dear  sir,  is  a  portrait  It  represents  the 
person  it  is  intended  to  represent.  It  represents  me  I  It  is 
not  pretty.  Certainly,  it  is  not  amiable ;  it  is  not  even  *  nice.' 
But  am  I — I  myself,  in  real  life — either  pretty,  or  amiable,  or 
'nice'?  You  would  not  expect  much  sentiment  from  that 
man'' — pointing  to  the  picture — ''but  would  you  look  for 
sentiment  in  me?  You  would  double-lock  the  chest  in 
w^hich  you  keep  your  secrets  in  the  presence  of  our  brown 
friend — do  you  imagine  that  /  have  not  trained  my  powers  of 
observation?  It  is  a  masterpiece;  just  that.  Miles  Bering 
has  to  keep  up  to  that  level,  or  devote  himself  to  wood- 
carving,  which  he  does  fairly  well." 

Bering  was  standing  a  little  apart,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  on  his  face  a  distinctly  amused  expression.  His  dark 
eyes  wandered  slowly  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  visitors 
faces.  Underwood  was  silenced,  Tuke  was  afraid  to  venture 
an  opinion,  but  Clio  broke  in  ; 

"  I  see  what  you  meant  when  you  decried  '  social  portraits.' 
There  is  nothing  'social'  about  that  I  The  doctor  grinned 
delightedly  and  shook  his  head.  Clio  went  on.  "  How  did 
it  come  here — this  portrait?  You  hadn't  it  the  other  day 
when  I  came  in  ?  " 

Bering,  to  whom  the  words  were  addressed,  shook  his 
head,  but  before  he  could  speak  the  doctor  interrupted. 

"  It  arrived  from  Paris  yesterday.  I  sent  up  for  it.  I 
wanted  to  show  it  to  my  old  friend.  Cardinal  Santanini,  and 
— to  one  or  two  other  people.  It  is  going  to  the  Vatican 
to-morrow  morning." 

Clio  glanced  at  him  meaningly ;  she  guessed  his  intention, 
but  even  she  did  not  care  to  try  to  force  his  confidence. 


92 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Doyenbert,  who  had  said  all  he  intended  to  say  about  the 
portrait,  let  his  restless  eyes  roam  round  the  big  room  :  suddenly 
they  remained  stationary,  and  he  crossed  rapidly  to  one  of 
the  windows. 

thought  so!  Miles,  what  can  you  be  thinking  of? 
Those  pots  are  genuine  Satsuma,  they  ought  to  be  under 
glass.  They  are  almost  priceless — these  old  seventeenth- 
century  things,  and  you  leave  them  about  here  to  get  knocked 
down  and  smashed  to  pieces." 

Bering  approached  and  patted  the  excited  speaker  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Who  is  going  to  knock  them  down?  And  don't  you 
think  they  are  very  much  more  honoured  by  being  permitted 
to  carry  those  glorious  roses  than  they  would  be  if  shut  up  in 
a  glass  case  ?  What's  the  good  of  having  jiice  things  if  you 
don't  use  them  ?  I  suppose  you  would  have  an  apoplectic  fit 
if  I  told  you  that  I  stick  my  brushes  into  a  Kioto  tea-bowl 
which  carries  Ninsei's  name?  It  is  really  a  lovely  thing — I 
must  show  it  to  Mrs  Waring." 

With  the  light  step  of  an  athlete  he  quickly  crossed  the 
room  and  Doyenbert,  exasperated,  looked  at  the  little  group 
left  behind.  He  lightly  touched  the  pot  in  which  the  branch 
of  roses  had  been  so  carefully  arranged. 

"That  thing  alone  is  worth  a  small  fortune,"  he  said  with 
irritation.  "The  design  is  Tangen's  and  it's  almost  impossible 
to  get  this  ware  now — in  Europe.  That  is  Bering  all  over. 
He  is  Irish  to  the  backbone,  as  his  uncle  used  to  say :  he  has 
no  idea  of  the  value  of  things  or  money." 

While  he  was  speaking  the  painter  had  returned  and  was 
standing  just  behind  Clio,  holding  in  his  hand  a  small  bowl. 
He  looked  at  the  doctor  with  a  whimsical  smile. 

"  Bon't  be  so  sure  about  that.  I  know  very  well  the  value 
of  things  and  money :  they  are  worth  just  what  pleasure,  or 
benefit,  or  comfort  they  give.  The  idea  of  shutting  up  pretty 
things  in  a  museum,  in  glass  cases,  is  an  atrocious  one.  All 
very  well  for  the  tourists,  but  do  you  think  these  things,  the 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


93 


children  of  active,  cultured  brains,  have  no  feeling?  That 
they — who  have  absorbed  so  much  life  from  their  creators — 
are  dead  ?  Not  at  all.  They  are  all  alive  in  their  own  way 
and  they  appreciate  affection  and  admiration.  Chu  loves  that 
old  pot  and  he  loves  those  roses :  do  you  think,  my  dear 
twentieth-century  master  of  nerves,  you  could  have  made  that 
effect?" 

Doyenbert  gave  a  short  laugh  and  seized  the  bowl.  It  was 
small  and  of  a  pale  buff  ware,  and  the  "crackle"  was  fine  as 
a  geometrical  drawing.  At  one  side,  low  down,  there  was  a 
little  seal  bearing  the  two  characters  which  represented  the 
name  of  the  famous  Ninsei.  The  critic  looked  at  the  bowl  on 
every  side  and  then,  with  a  snort  of  disgust,  handed  it  back. 
He  wheeled  round,  threw  the  contents  of  one  of  the  large 
cartons  of  studies  on  a  table  and  turned  over  the  papers 
impatiently. 

Mrs  Waring  and  Fenton  Tuke  bent  over  the  bowl  in 
eager  interest  and  Bering  explained  to  them  something  of  the 
mysteries  of  the  application  of  coloured  enamels.  Underwood 
was  standing  near  them  when  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
call  from  the  doctor. 

"  Come  here,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  show  you  something. 
You  remember  what  I  said  to  you  this  morning,  at  the  Villa 
Borghese,  about  the  Madonna  hand.  Well — here  you  have  it 
in  perfection.  That  rascal  over  there  is  a  fool  where  money  is 
concerned,  but  he  has  talent !  Look  at  these  studies ;  look 
at  the  tender  beauty  of  that  upturned  palm ;  look  at  the 
mother-caress  of  those  little  fingers?  Those  are  Madonna 
hands — pure  and  simple.  You  seemed  to  doubt  me  when  I 
said  that  human  hands  have  no  secrets  for  those  who  know 
how  to  read  them.  Look  here — only  a  rough  sketch,  but  the 
type  is  clearly  indicated.  It  is  not  so  much  the  pose  as  the 
hand  itself — the  shape,  the  general  outline.  The  woman  who 
owns  these  hands — and  these,  and  these^  belong  to  the  mother 
type — absolutely. " 

The  doctor  had  talked  so  excitedly  and  so  fast  that  Mrs 


94 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Waring's  attention  was  attracted :  she  and  Tuke  approached 
the  table  and  Bering  followed.  When  he  saw  the  sketches 
a  slight  flush  rose  to  his  face.  Doyenbert  turned  to  him 
eagerly. 

"Are  these  the  hands  of  an  Italian  model? "  The  painter 
shook  his  head. 

"No.  They  are  not  the  hands  of  a  'model*  at  all." 
Something  in  his  tone  made  Doyenbert  look  at  him  sharply. 

"No?  "he  began  and  then  pulled  up.  He  looked  again 
at  the  sketches  and  back  at  Bering.  Then  he  tumbled  the 
papers  together  in  confusion. 

"I  have  an  appointment,"  he  said.  "I  must  go,  if  Mrs 
Waring  will  excuse  me?" 

Simultaneously  everyone  found  it  necessary  to  leave,  and 
in  the  little  bustle  of  departure  Clio  came  to  Bering's  side. 
In  her  hand  she  held  one  of  the  studies. 

"Is  there  any  mystery  about  these?"  she  asked  softly. 
"  You  didn't  seem  very  anxious  to  disclose  the  name  of  the 
person  who  owns  these  bewitching  little  hands  ?  " 

She  anticipated  that  he  would  say  they  were  studies  of 
Nina  Cantalli's  hands  and  she  intended  to  avail  herself  of  the 
opportunity  to  give  yet  another  word  of  warning :  her  amaze- 
ment was  ludicrous  when  he  replied,  very  quietly  : 

"No,  there's  no  mystery.  They  are  studies  of  Miss 
Hilliard's  hands." 

"  Miss  Hilliard — the  girl  who  is  staying  with  the  Comtesse 
de  Brissac  ?  " 

"  Yes.    Why  are  you  so  surprised  ?  " 

Clio  was  really  disconcerted. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  at  all.  It  does  seem  rather  surprising. 
I  never  would  have  dreamt  of  considering  her  in  that  light. 
It  seems  so  impossible." 

"What  seems  impossible?  That  Nature  should  have 
created  her  in  what  the  doctor  calls  *the  pure  Madonna 
mould'?" 

"  But  really  !    You  cannot  think  that  ?  " 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


95 


"  But  you  are  looking  at  her  hands  ?  Do  you  think  they 
are  out  of  drawing? 

course  not,  but  .  .  She  looked  up  and  met  his 

eyes  alight  with  mischievous  amusement.  The  suspicion 
that  there  was  malice  underlying  the  mischief  gave  her 
courage.  "  If  s  no  affair  of  mine,  but  if  she  is  the  Madonna 
type  I  think  it's  about  time  we  had  a  few  new  dictionaries 
compiled  :  these  ultra-modern  meanings  to  old-fashioned  words 
are  beyond  my  understanding/' 

You  know  Miss  HiUiard  very  well  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  her  at  all,  but  I've  seen  her." 

"Her  hands?" 
In  gloves,  of  course." 

Bering  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  delightedly. 
What  a  delicious  little  woman  you  are.    It  puts  one  in 
the  best  of  good  humours  just  to  remember  that  you  are 
alive  !  "    She  was  prepared  to  be  indignant. 

*^You  may  say  what  you  please,  but  I'm  certain  you've 
made  a  mistake  this  time.  She  is  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  I 
have  ever  seen,  really  lovely  I  think,  but  it's  the  most  far- 
fetched Idea  to  make  out  that  she  was  intended  by  Nature  to 
be  *a  good  mother'!  I'm  very  sure  she  wouldn't  thank  you 
if  she  knew  the  role  you  had  assigned  to  her." 

"  But  I  haven't  assigned  any  role  to  her  ?  I  am  going  to 
paint  her  portrait,  and  these  sketches  are  studies  of  her  hands, 
that's  all." 

*^But  you  profess  to  be  a  judge  of  hands  and  to  tell  all 
sorts  of  secret  things  from  them ;  and  I've  heard  you  say  that 
certain  hands  indicate  the  presence  of  certain  qualities,  etc., 
etc.  You  told  Gabrielle  Borizoff  that  she  had  the  hands  of 
an  idealist,  and  I  don't  believe  she  even  understands  the 
meaning  of  the  word  ideal !  And  now  these — "  she  pointed 
to  the  sketches  slightingly.  One  doesn't  like  to  think  one 
has  been  made  a  fool  of;  but  really  I  shall  soon  begin  to 
believe  that  you're  not  quite  such  a  wonderful  person  as 
you're  supposed  to  be  ! " 


96 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


When  Bering  came  back  to  the  studio,  after  having  seen 
his  guests  off,  he  crossed  to  one  of  the  open  windows. 

In  the  already  creeping  twilight  the  garden  looked  strange 
and  mysterious.  As  the  aftermath  of  a  glorious  sunset  cast 
fierce  flashes  of  red-gold  against  the  blackness  of  the  cypress 
trees  they  seemed  like  wraiths  of  Nero's  human  torches, 
standing  out,  sombre  and  defiant,  against  a  veil  of  deep  blue. 
From  a  tangled  confusion  of  laurels  and  orange-trees  came  a 
monotonous  murmur  of  trickling  waters,  for  under  the  shadow 
of  high  walls  a  little  fountain  whispered  to  the  violets  that  lay 
about  its  sunken  basin.  In  the  evening  stillness  Bering 
seemed  to  hear  a  multitude  of  voices— low  but  insistent : 
shadow  hands  seemed  stretched  out  to  draw  him  into  the  past 
— into  the  Golden  Age,  when  Alessandro  Farnese,  the  Magni- 
ficent, had  built  up  his  palace,  close  by;  when  Julius  II.  had 
formed  the  proud  ambition  to  make  of  the  Via  Giulia  the  most 
superb  thoroughfare  in  all  the  City  Beautiful. 

The  voice  of  Rome — the  Rome  of  the  Caesars  and  of  the 
great  Princes  of  the  Church,  was  always  ringing  in  the  painter's 
ears ;  he  was  a  willing  listener  and,  to  those  who  know  how  to 
listen,  the  Eternal  City  never  fails  to  speak. 

Bering  was  a  passionate  lover  of  Nature ;  he  had  spoken 
but  the  truth  when  he  said  that  he  would  not  willingly  give 
up  his  early  morning  walk  to  the  gardens  of  his  friend :  a  walk 
which  took  him  away  from  the  awakening  City  and  out  beyond, 
where  geraniums  climb  about  the  old  walls  of  deserted  houses 
and  where  the  wattles  form  thick  hedges.  It  was  always  a 
delight  to  him  to  watch  the  City  awakening  under  the  pale 
gold  rays  of  a  rising  sun  and  to  see  afar  the  living  carpets 
of  emerald  and  sapphire  and  softest  brown  on  her  famous 
hills. 

In  the  early  morning  and  at  the  hour  of  twilight  he  loved 
Rome  best,  and  as  he  stood  by  the  open  window  his  brain 
was  weaving  delicious  dreams.  He  was  a  poet  at  heart,  and 
within  him,  as  yet  only  partly  realized,  lay  the  germs  of  great 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


97 


Lover.  Fastidious  to  the  point  of  exaggeration  he  was,  in 
many  ways,  simple  as  a  child,  with  a  child's  intuitive  apprecia- 
tion of  things  that  were  genuine.  He  had  known  and 
admired,  passionately  in  more  cases  than  one,  many  women, 
but  he  had  not,  so  far,  met  with  the  woman  he  could  love : 
the  woman  who  must  be  his  wife.  At  least,  he  thought  not ! 
A  fortnight  before  he  could  have  spoken  with  certainty, 
but  now — a  girl's  face,  mutinous  and  often  mocking,  haunted 
his  waking  thoughts ;  little  white  hands,  with  pink  palms  and 
gleaming  shell-like  nails  that  owed  much  to  art — tangled  the 
threads  of  his  dreams ;  a  faint,  sweet  perfume,  subtle,  enervat- 
ing, incensed  the  shrine  of  his  imagination,  and  made  his 
pulses  throb. 

He  was  a  fervent  worshipper  of  Nature,  and  to  this  mock- 
ing girl  Nature  seemed  but  a  poor,  antiquated  bungler,  whose 
unfinished  work  called  for  the  constant  presence  of  Art? 

Very  early  in  life  he  had  built  up  in  his  imagination  an 
ideal — the  ideal  of  the  woman  who  was  to  share  his  life,  and 
to  crown  it.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  will  and  it  rarely 
happened  that  he  wavered,  in  word  or  deed,  but,  within  a 
fleeting  fortnight,  something  unexpected  had  come  into  his 
life  and  he  could  not  get  away  from  it.  He  could  not  have 
said  whether  it  brought  him  more  of  pleasure  or  of  appre- 
hension ;  only  he  knew  it  brought  him  unrest. 

Down  below,  beyond  the  colonnaded  loggia,  lay  the  Tiber. 
That  sullen  flood  which  had  witnessed  the  triumph  of  the 
City  Beautiful,  and  which  seemed  so  desperately  weary  of 
laving  the  dust  of  what  had  once  been  world-famous.  Some 
solitary  stone-pines  were  silhouetted  against  the  darkening  sky. 
The  painter  leaned  against  the  window  and  peered  into  the 
quivering  shadows.  An  echo  came  to  him  of  words  spoken 
the  day  before  by  a  famous  Italian  poet-dramatist  who  was  his 
intimate  friend.  "  Cher  ami^  you  are  an  iconoclast  and  a 
path-finder :  from  the  dust  of  broken  idols  you  can,  if  you  so 
desire,  create  others — more  adorable,  if  different."  He  had 
smiled  at  the  phrase  but  it  came  back  to  him  as  he  communed 
7 


98 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


with  the  shadows.  A  pathfinder  "  ?  He  closed  his  dark  eyes 
dreamily  and  invited  the  vision  of  pale  hands  of  rose-tipped 
ivory,  with  lines  that  cried  aloud  of  perilous  contradictions  and 
little  shell-nails  whose  brilliancy  put  to  shame  the  gleaming 
stones  on  the  rings  that  weighed  down  the  slender  fingers. 
"  The  mother  type  ?  "  Doyenbert  had  spoken  with  knowledge 
and  certainty  and  a  smile  flickered  over  the  painter's  face. 
His  colour  rose  a  little  and  he  turned  away. 


CHAPTER  VII 


HE  Comtesse  de  Brissac  was  occupying  a  comfortable 


J  suite  of  rooms  at  the  Hotel  Bristol.  She  had,  since  her 
arrival  in  Rome,  made  many  additions  to  the  furniture  and 
decorations.  Several  fine  pictures  and  pieces  of  priceless  old 
china  had  been  sent  over  from  the  Villa  Platoff.  Her  sur- 
roundings were  luxurious  and  sufficiently  picturesque,  but  she 
was  dissatisfied.  She  had  secretly  cherished  the  idea  that, 
now  that  she  had  accepted  the  position  of  chaperon  to  her 
young  cousin,  she  could  pass  another  winter  at  the  Villa 
Platoff.  She  had  not,  held  back  by  memories  of  certain  scenes 
which  had  followed  on  her  last  prolonged  visit  to  Platoff's 
house,  actually  suggested  the  idea,  but  she  felt  certain  it  would 
be  realized.  Great  then  was  her  disappointment  when  Platoff 
himself  engaged  the  suite  at  the  Bristol  and  interested  himself 
in  her  installation.  She  was  a  woman  of  imperious  temper, 
audacious  to  the  point  of  impertinence,  but  she  did  not  dare 
to  oppose  the  wishes  of  the  man  she  loved.  She  knew,  though 
she  would  not  acknowledge  it,  even  in  her  thoughts,  that  her 
hold  on  Serge  Platoff  was  weakening.  She  amused  him — 
still ;  and  they  had  been  close  friends  for  so  long  that  they 
had  many  mutual  interests. 

He  still  paid  her  marked  attention,  rarely  allowing  a  day  to 
pass  without  seeing  her,  but  her  love  for  him — the  one  genuine 
emotion  of  her  life — made  her  ever  on  the  watch,  and  she 
knew  that  his  cruel,  critical  eyes  often  rested  on  her  now  in 
contemplation.  When  he  looked  at  her  she  felt  her  years. 
She  realized  that  while  it  had  been  amusing  to  find  an 
Englishwoman  in  the  springtime  of  life  with  the  manners  and 
morals  of  a  Parisian  Cafi  Chantant  artist,  it  was  quite  another 


99 


100  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


matter  when  the  woman  was  Hearing  the  uncertain age. 
It  had  been  unexpected  and  diverting  while  her  life  was  still 
in  spring,  but  now — when  summer  was  beginning  to  make  way 
for  autumn :  when  she  was  beginning  to  find  it  necessary  to 
consider  the  arrangements  of  the  blinds  and  curtains :  when 
she  could  no  longer  watch  the  sun  rise  after  a  cotillon  ? 

It  was  still  amusing — perhaps.  But  the  quality  of  the 
amusement  was  slowly  changing.  In  those  days  of  springtide 
he  had  laughed  with  her.    And  now  ? 

She  bit  her  lips  until  the  blood  came  as  she  remembered 
some  words  spoken  by  a  woman  she  hated — Princess  Borizoff. 
They  had  been  addressed  to  Platoff,  in  the  salon  of  the 
Duchessa  della  Rocca. 

"  For  men  age  may  become  an  apotheosis,  for  women  it 
can  only  mean  a  debacle. 

Muriel  de  Brissac  looked  across  the  room  to  where  the 
Russian  was  standing  looking  out  of  a  window. 

"I  am  certain  your  sister  has  said  things  to  the  della 
Roccas,"  she  said  abruptly.  "The  Duchessa  saluted  me  very 
coldly  to  day,  and  she  has  not  invited  me  to  any  of  her  dinners 
this  season.  Of  course,  her  big  reception  on  the  20th  means 
nothing.    She  has  asked  everyone  she  knows  to  that." 

Platoff  turned  and  looked  at  her.    He  was  smiling. 

"Of  course  Nadine  has  *said  things,'  chere  amie.  How 
could  you  expect  otherwise  ?  I  warned  you,  you  will  remem- 
ber, more  than  once?  I  told  you  she  was  an  observant 
woman.  You  elected  to  take  for  granted  that  because  she 
said  nothing,  then — she  saw  nothing  !  It  is  quite  English,  that 
supreme  disregard  of  the  convenances^  but  it  is  not  convenient." 

"  The  *  convenances '  ?  Well,  really  Serge,  (^est  trop  fort  fa  I 
And  your  sister  ?  Do  you  pose  her  as  a  model  of  virtue  ?  " 
He  allowed  his  glass  to  drop  from  his  eye  and  before  replying 
he  carefully  polished  it  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Were  we  discussing  virtue?  My  memory  plays  me 
tricks :  I  thought  we  were  speaking  of  the  co?ive?iances  ? " 
Their  eyes  met  and  his  smile  deepened.    "  You  are  looking 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  loi 


very  well  to-day,"  he  said  as  he  approached  the  table  where 
she  was  sitting,  ^*that  little  note  of  black  is  admirably 
effective.'* 

It  was  quite  true  that  she  was  looking  well  that  afternoon. 
She  was  wearing  an  audacious  Tanagra  robe  of  leaf  green 
crepe  that  displayed  every  curve  of  her  superb  figure.  She  was 
not  a  notably  tall  woman  and  her  slender  waist  made  her  full 
bust  look  almost  out  of  proportion,  but  she  was  finely  formed 
and  her  carriage  was  perfect.  She  walked  with  a  springy  step 
and  a  subtle  swing  of  the  hips  which  recalled  the  movements 
of  a  Spanish  dancer. 

She  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  pretty  w^oman,  but  her 
dark  blue  eyes,  fringed  with  black  lashes,  were  effective  in 
shape  and  capable  of  varied  expression,  and  when  her  full  red 
lips  parted  they  disclosed  little  teeth  of  dazzling  whitness,  even 
as  rows  of  matched  pearls.  Her  hair  was  thick  and  henna 
tinted  and  her  straight  brows  were  quite  black.  Most  women 
considered  her  unduly  remarkable  looking  but  she  had  genius 
in  matters  of  dress — from  the  Parisian  point  of  view. 

She  laughed  up  into  Platoff's  face  and  lightly  touched  the 
long  black  quill  which  cut  the  dead  green  of  her  toque. 

"  Yes.  I  think  it  isn't  bad  !  "  Then  her  face  changed  and 
she  stretched  out  her  ungloved  hand  until  it  rested  on  that 
of  the  man.  I  wonder,"  she  said  slowly,  "why  you  take  so 
much  trouble  to  ridicule  that  Bering  man  before  Violet  ?  Do 
you  know,  I  think  it  would  be  a  splendid  thing  if  she  fell  in 
love  with  him.  Her  aunt  would  be  delighted — I'm  certain 
she  had  something  of  the  kind  in  her  mind  when  she  made 
such  a  point  of  that  portrait  being  done — and  Violet's  future 
would  be  settled.  Of  course  I  know  the  man  is  tiresome  and 
2^  poseur^  but  he's  clever ;  lots  of  people  think  he  will  become 
celebrated — really,  I  mean." 

She  was  looking  at  a  curious  ring  on  Platofl's  little  finger 
as  she  spoke  and  she  did  not  see  his  face.  It  was  perhaps 
just  as  well ;  his  expression  might  have  given  her  food  for 
thought.    Hate  flashed  across  the  depths  of  the  cynical  eyes 


102  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


and  with  the  hate — desire.  For  a  single  instant  the 
Russian  resembled  a  wild  animal  disturbed  at  the  moment 
it  was  preparing  to  spring  upon  its  prey. 

When  Muriel  de  Brissac,  surprised  at  the  silence,  looked 
up  he  was  again  smiling. 

"  So  even  you  have  succumbed  to  that  powerful  anaesthetic, 
Bluff  ?  You  find  it  impossible  to  resist  the  mystic  phrases 
and  occult  words  which  express  the  New  Art?  You  really 
believe  that  this  fellow,  educated  in  an  unknown  village  in 
Ireland,  the  nephew  of  a  Fenian  rascal  who  was  kicked  out 
of  his  own  country,  is  going  to  become  'celebrated'?  You 
really  believe  that  people  who  understand  and  appreciate  true 
Art  are  going  to  make  a  holocaust  of  their  paintings,  the  works 
of  known  masters,  to  give  place  to  the  fogs  and  meaningless 
mists  of  this  self-sufficient  reformer?  Of  course  I  am  not 
materially  concerned  in  your  arrangements  for  the  future  of 
your  cousin,  but  I  am  of  opinion  that  Weston  Hilliard  will  not 
thank  you  very  warmly  if  you  decide  to  countenance  such  a 
sacrifice." 

Madame  de  Brissac  looked  at  him  search ingly. 
But  why  do  you  speak  so  bitterly?    Why  do  you  dislike 
him  so  much  ?    You  went  out  of  your  way  this  afternoon  to 
draw  Violet's  attention  to  the  fact  that  he  was  going  into  the 
hotel  where  that  Cantalli  girl  is  staying?" 

"  Chere^  you  are  so  delightfully  exaggerative  !  I  did  not 
go  out  of  my  way  at  all.  I  merely  mentioned  the  fact  that  it 
was  the  hotel  which  has  been  made  famous  by  the  presence 
of  Mademoiselle  Cantalli,  and — that  Mr  Bering  was  entering 
hurriedly.  When  one  is  out  driving  and  sitting  opposite  a 
jeime  fille  one  must  try  to  find  something  to  say  and  so 
many  subjects  are  considered  unsuitable?" 

Yes  ? "  Madame  de  Brissac  continued  to  look  at  her 
visitor  through  half-closed  eyes.  "  It's  quite  easy  to  under- 
stand Weston's  possible,  or  probable,  view  of  the  affair.  He's 
always  hard  up  and,  naturally  enough,  would  expect  some 
personal  advantage  from  Violet  s  marriage — but  you  ?  You're 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


103 


different?  You've  nothing  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose.  Why 
do  you  feel  so  strongly  about  the  matter  ?  " 

*'  May  it  not  be  that  I  take  an  interest — -cousinly,  shall  we 
say — in  your  young  relative  ?  That  point  of  view  would  not 
seem  entirely  unnatural  ?  " 

^*  Absolutely  and  entirely  unnatural.  I  don't  understand 
it,  and  I'm  very  tired  of  the  whole  thing.  I  should  never 
have  consented  to  take  charge  of  Violet  if  I  had  not  supposed 
that  having  her  with  me  would  give  me  more  —  freedom. 
People  have  always  been  such  idiots,  saying  detestable  things 
and  worrying  poor  Henri  to  death.  He  thought  it  would 
make  everything  right  to  have  this  girl  in  the  house,  and 
Weston  wanted  it  very  much  and  so  I  consented ;  but  it  has 
been  no  end  of  a  bother  and  the  game  is  not  worth  the 
candle.  I'm  sure  this  man  will  make  quite  a  lot  of  money 
and  I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't  marry  him.  I  don't 
want  her  here  and  you  can't  want  her  here  ]  as  for  Weston 
— it  doesn't  matter,  I've  done  more  than  enough  for  him 
already,  and  Henri  would  of  course  agree  to  anything  I 
suggested." 

Platoff  arranged  his  single  glass  with  great  care  and  stood 
before  her  with  his  hands  lightly  clasped  behind  his  back. 
He  was  a  particularly  graceful  man  and  the  outline  of  his  high 
forehead  was  noble.  He  wore  a  pale  grey  suit  and  in  his 
buttonhole  there  was  a  waxen  gardenia. 

"  Why  be  precipitate  ?  The  girl  gives  you  very  little 
trouble — really.  And  she  is  an  excellent  foil !  Besides — I 
have  a  little  plan.  It  is  only  in  embryo  but  something  may 
come  of  it — a  little  later  on." 

A  plan  ?  You  are  thinking  of  arranging  a  marriage  for 
Violet — you?^^ 

She  spoke  with  eagerness  and  in  her  deep  blue  eyes  there 
was  the  light  of  greed.  Platoff  was  a  power  in  his  own 
country  and — Russians  were  proverbially  rich.  She  looked 
at  him  questioningly  and  there  was  on  his  face  a  baffling 
expression  that  made  her  smile  and  then  laugh  outright.  He 


104  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


had  some  deep  scheme  on  hand  she  thought;  something 
which  would  benefit  her, 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  you  as  a  match-maker,  but  who 
knows,  you  may  be  immensely  successful  !  You  have  my 
blessing  on  the  '  plan ' — whatever  it  may  be." 

She  was  sitting  facing  the  light  and  as  she  spoke  she  threw 
back  her  head  and  laughed.  Platoff  looked  at  her  closely. 
His  keen  eyes  detected  tiny  lines  about  her  mouth  and  chin, 
inevitable  heralds  of  the  passage  of  time,  and  it  occurred  to 
him  to  speak  to  her  of  the  wisdom  of  his  old  friend,  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  who  had  made  ultra-high  collars  the  rage  when 
she  herself  needed  them.  He  was  naturally  cruel ;  it  gave 
him  pleasure  to  inflict  suffering  which  could  not  easily  be 
resented.  He  still  found  Muriel  de  Brissac  amusing,  and 
custom  had  attached  him  to  her ;  but  the  day  was  past  when 
she  had  had  power  to  influence  him.  Nevertheless  he  knew 
that  it  would  not  be  wise  to  vex  her — just  then.  He  had,  as 
he  had  said,  a  plan. 

He  was  still  looking  down  at  her  when  the  door  opened 
and  a  girl  entered  quickly :  she  was  carrying  in  her  hand  a 
loose  bunch  of  roses  and  she  laid  a  note  on  the  table  before 
her  cousin  as  she  smiled  at  the  Russian. 

Violet  Hilliard  was  extraordinarily  attractive  and  in  a 
subtle  way.  Her  beauty  of  form  and  feature  was  undeniable, 
but  her  charm  lay  deeper  than  that.  Platoff,  an  experienced 
judge  of  women,  thought  she  was  more  perfectly  finished  than 
any  other  feminine  creature  of  his  acquaintance.  "  Finish 
was  the  word  that  always  presented  itself  when  he  thought  of 
her. 

She  was  still  wearing  her  outdoor  things  and  the  tailor- 
made  suit  of  dark  blue  serge  was  very  flattering  to  her  slight 
figure  :  it  was  richly  braided  in  black  silk  and  she  was  wearing, 
thrown  off  her  shoulders,  a  scarf  of  black  fox ;  a  cap  of  the 
same  fur  was  pressed  down  over  her  wonderful  pale  gold  hair ; 
a  foam  of  creamy  lace  showed  itself  where  the  coat  opened  in 
front,  and  at  her  breast  she  had  a  cluster  of  dark  crimson  roses 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  105 


which  seemed  almost  purple  in  the  changing  light.  A  faint, 
subtle  perfume  hovered  round  her,  and  as  she  moved  a  cluster 
of  golden  toys — purse,  notebook,  powder-box  and  heaven 
knows  what  besides — hanging  from  a  chain  at  her  wrist,  gave 
out  a  tinkling  sound  as  of  miniature  bells.  Her  feet  and  hands 
were  small,  delicately  shaped  as  those  of  an  Andalusian  woman, 
and  her  beautiful  eyes  had  a  peculiarly  candid,  almost  child- 
like, expression — unexpected  as  fascinating.  In  dress  and 
manner  she  was  a  finished  woman  of  the  world,  the  antithesis 
of  a  jeune  fille  from  the  foreign  point  of  view,  and  this  fact 
lent  piquancy  to  a  gaze  which  had  been  likened  to  that  of  a 
modern  Vestal  Virgin. 

The  Russian  looked  at  her  through  half-closed  eyes  and  it 
flashed  into  his  mind  that  she  would  look  superb  in  the  famous 
Platoff  jewels.  She  was  so  tall  and  lily-like — swaying  as  she 
walked  like  a  slender  sapling  touched  by  a  baby  wind.  She 
was  essentially,  even  exaggeratedly,  modern,  and  yet  there  was 
something  in  her  beauty  that  suggested  mystery.  When  he 
looked  at  her  Platoff  understood  Nero's  passion  for  the  Vestal, 
Rubia.  When  he  looked  at  her  he  felt  that  he  himself  was 
actually  in  love.  He  who  had  all  his  life  mocked  at  the 
valiant  little  boy  with  the  quivering  wings  and  restless  arrows ; 
who  had  so  often  declared  that  the  desire  of  the  eyes  expressed 
the  limits  of  that  emotion  which  the  poets  called  **Love." 

Once  before  he  had  met  and  passionately  desired  a  girl 
who  had  seemed  half  an  angel,  half  an  accomplished  woman 
of  the  world — Nina  Cantalli,  the  singer.  He  had  desired  her 
and  she  had  been  stolen  from  him  at  the  moment  when  his 
golden  nets  had  almost  closed  round  her.  Stolen — and  by 
the  man  he  hated  and  affected  to  despise :  the  painter  who 
had  no  place  in  society  and  whose  role  was  that  of  a  charlatan. 

No  one  had  been  present  at  the  interview  between  Bering 
and  the  Prince — the  interview  in  which  the  painter  had  torn 
away  the  mask  from  Platoff's  life  and  laid  it  bare  in  all  its 
subtle  impurity ;  in  which  he  had  threatened  to  make  public 
certain  damning  facts  connected  with  that  life. 


io6  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


The  meeting  had  taken  place  in  the  Russian's  hotel  in 
Paris,  where  Dering  had  sought  him,  and  just  at  the  close  the 
painter  had  struck  Platoff  across  the  face  with  the  gloves  he 
was  carrying  in  his  hand,  leaving  a  mark,  inflicted  by  a  heavy 
metal  button,  near  the  right  eye.  Platoff  had  been  enraged, 
beside  himself  with  fury,  but — even  at  that  moment — the 
remembrance  of  the  painter's  skill  with  sword  and  pistol  had 
come  to  him.  There  was  murder  in  the  dark  eyes  of  the 
man  who  had  flung  his  gloves  insultingly  across  his  face,  and 
the  Prince  hesitated;  long  enough  to  call  up  a  smile  to 
Bering's  face. 

The  single  word    coward"  rang  through  the  scented  air 
of  the  luxurious  room:  Platoff  hesitated — then  laughed. 
Russian  Prince  does  not  meet  a  man  of  your  class,  Mr  Dering," 
he  had  said  mockingly.    "  You  are  interested  in  Mademoiselle 
Cantalli  ?    Well — I  will  be  generous.    I  present  her  to  you  !  " 

In  speaking  he  had  struck  a  gong  and,  on  the  entrance  of 
a  servant,  had  bowed  slightly  and  taken  up  a  book  to  indicate 
that  the  interview  was  ended. 

He  had  often  since  then  told  himself  that  the  moment  had 
been  merely  ridiculous.  That  he  would  have  been  justified  if 
he  had  ordered  the  intruder  to  be  seized  and  beaten  by  some 
of  his  servants.  There  had  been  no  witnesses.  No  one  in 
his  world  would  take  the  painter's  word  against  his,  supposing 
Dering  elected  to  talk.  The  whole  thing  was  unworthy  of 
serious  thought ;  nevertheless  the  memory  was  bitter  and  it 
gave  him  keen  pleasure  to  belittle  the  man  who  had  humiliated 
him.  He  was  a  diplomat  by  education  and  predilection ;  it 
amused  him  to  realize  that  he  was  just  then  walking  in  the 
midst  of  danger.  He  knew  Muriel  de  Brissac  loved  him 
devotedly.  That  his  influence  over  her  was  almost  unlimited ; 
but  he  scented  danger.  She  was  vain  and  worldly :  her  love 
of  money  was  whipped  by  her  lack  of  it  from  legitimate 
sources.  She  had  few  scruples,  and  in  her  own  particular  set 
curious  things  were  done,  and  accepted,  daily.  He  was  very 
sure  of  her  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  woman  of  the  world 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


but  there  was  another  side.  She  loved  him  !  And  Platoff 
knew  well  that  when  love  comes,  for  the  first  time,  to  a 
woman  who  has  passed  her  early  youth  it  generally  comes  to 
stay.  He  would  have  to  walk  warily  and  for  the  moment  no 
one  must  dream  that  his  attraction  to  the  de  Brissac  menage 
was  other  than  his  well-known  friendship  for  the  Comtesse. 
As  Violet  Hilliard  crossed  the  room  in  search  of  a  magazine 
he  prepared  to  take  leave. 

A  ce  soir  1^^  he  said  softly  as  he  bent  over  the  hand  of 
the  Comtesse.  "  Mademoiselle,  you  will  not  permit  yourself 
to  forget  that  you  have  promised  me  two  valses  this  evening  ? 
And  will  you  try  to  keep  one  free  for  a  great  friend  of  mine 
whom  I  hope  to  present — with  your  permission,  and 
Madame's?  Ivan  Apraxine  is  a  handsome  fellow.  All  the 
ladies  find  him  adorable  !  " 

The  Comtesse  was  arranging  some  rose  branches  in  a 
crystal  vase  and  she  did  not  see  PlatofTs  eyes  as  he  directed 
them  towards  the  tall  figure  in  dark  blue  :  they  expressed  such 
open,  almost  violent,  admiration  that  Violet's  colour  rose,  ever 
so  faintly.  She  half  lowered  her  dark  lashes  and  smiled.  A 
moment  longer  the  devouring  glance  held  her  in  willing 
bondage,  and  then  he  bowed  low  and  passed  out. 

For  several  minutes  there  was  silence.  Muriel  de  Brissac 
was  busy  with  the  roses  and  Violet  was  in  dreamland. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  the  Russian  had  told  her,  silently, 
that  he  found  her  desirable  above  all  things.  At  first  his 
fervent,  stealthy  glances  had  frightened  her,  because  of  her 
cousin.  She  was  a  jeune  fille  but — of  the  world  ;  she  guessed 
the  true  state  of  affairs  pretty  accurately  and  she  was  not 
shocked.  Of  recent  years  she  had  met  so  many  pretty  women 
who  had  convenient  "  friends  "  that  she  had  come  to  regard  it 
as  a  matter  of  ordinary  usage.  Her  mother  had  died  when 
she  was  quite  a  little  girl,  and  up  to  the  age  of  seventeen  she 
had  lived  with  Miss  Hilliard,  her  father's  only  sister.  She 
had  never  loved  her  aunt  very  much  but  she  had  been,  in  a 
way,  happy  with  her;  she  had  even  taken  an  intermittent 


io8  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


interest  in  that  lady's  good  works.  Indeed  at  one  period  she 
had  been  imbued  with  the  idea  that  Nature  had  shaped  her 
for  "a  helper "  !  She  had  taken  delight  in  visiting  people  who 
lived  in  shabby  little  houses  where  a  smell  of  cooking  fought 
hourly  with  a  sickly  smell  of  cheap  lamp  oil  and  burning 
grease.  Violet  had  seemed  like  an  angel  to  the  inhabitants  of 
these  poor  little  houses  and  single  rooms,  and  it  had  been 
pleasant  to  shed  sunshine  in  dark  places.  They  had  loved 
her,  one  and  all — these  dwellers  in  the  shadows  and,  after  a 
manner,  she  had  been  fond  of  them.  But  then  there  were  so 
many  other  things  which  attracted  her  attention  and  in  the 
end,  though  she  did  try  to  overcome  the  feeling,  the  inter- 
mingled smell  of  burning  grease  and  cheap  oil  became  unbear- 
able. Then  she  tried  to  do  needlework  for  the  benefit  of  her 
aunt's  **poor  dears."  Little  squares  of  muslin  which  she 
called  handkerchiefs  and  which  the  recipients  treasured  up  in 
memory  of  ''Miss  Vilet";  and  attenuated  jackets  for  small 
children  who  all  seemed  to  possess  abnormally  chubby  arms, 
and  who  seemed  to  swell  visibly  when  the  garments  came  to 
be  tried  on.  Her  aunt,  who  really  loved  her,  never  lost  an 
opportunity  of  pointing  out  that  her  character  lacked  continuity, 
and  very  often  since  those  old  days  Violet  found  herself 
coming  to  the  same  conclusion.  She  was  forced  to  admit  that 
her  only  relationship  with  the  law  of  continuity  lay  in  her 
ardent  desire  to  pass  slowly  and  lingeringly  through  all  the 
phases  of  luxurious  life. 

When  she  was  seventeen  her  father  became  suddenly  alive 
to  her  possibilities,  promptly  took  her  from  her  aunt's  care  and 
introduced  her  to  the  delights  of  *'life  abroad."  Miss  Hilliard 
continued  to  give  her  niece  a  certain  sum,  paid  quarterly,  for 
pin-money,  but  she  was  gravely  offended.  So  much  so  that 
she  refused  to  take  the  girl  back  when  her  brother  Weston 
found  that  "possibilities  "  ran  into  money. 

Then  had  come  the  Comtesse  de  Brissac's  suggestion  that 
Violet  should  pay  her  a  visit  of  undefined  length. 

The  girl  had  received  the  idea  with  unconcealed  delight. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  109 

At  last  she  was  to  revel  in  luxury  and  to  find  herself  constantly 
surrounded  by  the  beautiful  things  she  loved.  She  had  been 
enchanted  and  her  father  had  proved  unexpectedly  generous. 
She  had  been  in  a  position  to  pay  off  several  pressing  debts — 
partly,  and  to  give  fresh  orders.  Certainly  some  of  the  Paris 
people  had  been  none  too  polite,  but  she  had  learned  from  her 
father  that  politeness  is  a  quality  unknown  to  tradespeople, 
either  in  giving  or  receiving.  She  had  passed  three  glorious 
weeks  at  Trouville,  a  feverish  month  in  Paris,  during  which 
her  Cousin  Muriel  had  spent  her  days  shopping  and  her 
evenings  at  the  theatres,  with  Prince  Platoff  in  attendance; 
and  now  they  were  at  Rome.  And  Violet  could  not  hide 
from  herself  the  fact  that  she  was  not  happy. 

Just  at  first  life  with  her  cousin  had  seemed  very  rosy  and 
enchanting.  Constant  change  of  scene  and  of  surroundings 
had  occupied  her  thoughts,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else, 
but  now — here  in  Rome,  at  the  opening  of  the  winter  season, 
she  was  again  realizing  the  difficulties  and  little  humiliations 
of  a  society  beauty  who  has  to  keep  up  appearances  on  com- 
paratively slender  means.  Sometimes,  when  she  happened 
to  be  in  a  specially  good  humour,  her  cousin  made  her 
handsome  presents,  but  these  nearly  always  took  the  form 
of  slightly  worn  gowns  or  hats.  It  was  true  that  on  their 
arrival  in  Rome,  Muriel  had  given  her,  as  a  birthday  present, 
a  little  gold  purse  containing  ;^3oo,  but  this  sum,  which  had 
seemed  splendid  on  receipt,  had  slipped  away — the  greater 
part  of  it  across  a  bridge  table  at  the  rooms  of  a  fabulously 
wealthy  Russian  woman  who  was  a  mutual  friend  of  Platoff 
and  of  the  Comtesse. 

They  had  insisted  that  Violet  must  play  and  her  partner 
had  been  Platoff.  When  supper  was  announced  and  debts 
paid  the  horrible  truth  presented  itself.  Platoff  had  scorned 
the  idea  that  his  partner  should  dream  of  sharing  the  losses, 
but  the  girl's  early  training  made  her  stand  firm.  She  was 
frightened  and  furious  at  her  own  stupidity,  but  she  did  not 
hesitate.    The  little  gold  purse  was  emptied,  with  a  careless 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


laugh,  and  never  once  did  she  betray  her  fears.  Platoff, 
whose  eyes  rarely  left  her  face,  was  amazed.  He  knew — no 
one  better  than  he — the  circumstances  that  surrounded  the 
girl's  life,  and  also  he  knew,  from  experience,  that  this  was 
not  the  spirit  in  which  Weston  Hilliard  regarded  debts  of 
honour ! 

From  the  first  he  had  admired  the  girl,  but  it  was  on  that 
night  that  he  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  her. 

Violet  was  thinking  of  the  Russian  Prince's  fervent  gaze 
as  she  turned  the  pages  of  a  magazine  without  realizing  what 
she  was  doing.  She  was  thoroughly  accustomed  to  spoken 
and  unspoken  admiration,  for  the  men  in  her  father's  set  had 
little  reverence  for  the  modern  jeune  fille  and  rarely  thought 
it  necessary  to  veil  their  ardent  glances  in  her  presence ;  but 
there  was  subtle  attraction  in  the  message  given  by  Platoffs 
eyes.  He  was  so  rich,  so  powerful,  so  much  sought  after. 
She  cast  a  little  side  look  at  her  cousin,  but  Muriel  was  still 
absorbed  in  the  flowers.  Violet  drew  herself  up  to  her  slender 
height  and  passed  her  little  white  hand  over  her  forehead. 
It  was  intoxicating  —  this  idea  which  was  nebulous  yet 
dazzling.  He  admired  her  —  exceedingly!  And  his  ad- 
miration could  only  have  one  meaning — if  only  it  were  strong 
enough  ? 

She  smiled.  Once  again  the  faint  rose  flush  stole  into  her 
face  and  then  suddenly  she  grew  grave.  She  was  thinking  of 
other  eyes — dark  and  admiring,  but  so  different.  Eyes  that 
seemed  to  penetrate  the  veil  of  her  thoughts  and  to  read  them  : 
eyes  that  seemed  to  hypnotize  her  little  ambitions  and  to 
awaken,  to  take  their  place,  childish  aspirations  which  had 
long  ago  been  thrust  aside  as  impossible."  She  knew  that 
it  was  the  habit  of  portrait  painters  to  study,  very  closely, 
their  sitters,  but  it  seemed  to  her,  at  least  it  seemed  so  at  that 
moment,  that  when  Miles  Dering  looked  at  her  he  was  not 
thinking  altogether  of  the  portrait  which  had  been  ordered  by 
her  aunt.  Twice  she  had  been  to  the  studio  for  sittings. 
Twice  she  had  met  the  painter  in  society.     Once  he  had 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


spoken  to  her  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  by  the  world-famous 
Spanish  Steps.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  and  she  had 
chanced  to  be  alone.  The  beautiful  shallow  steps  were  bathed 
in  golden  light,  for  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  dome  of 
St  Peter's.  The  towers  of  S.  Trinita  del  Monte  were  enveloped 
in  a  radiance  of  red-gold  haze  and,  all  around,  the  bells  were 
insistently  calling  the  faithful  to  Vespers.  A  flower-girl, 
carrying  a  basket  of  lilies  and  roses,  had  thrown  together  a 
bouquet  for  her,  at  Bering's  request. 

They  had  lingered,  perhaps  half  an  hour.  And  they  had 
talked.  And  then  when  the  purple  shadows  deepened  behind 
the  great  dome  on  the  Vatican  Hill,  the  painter  had  driven  her 
back  to  the  hotel,  leaving  the  carriage,  at  her  suggestion, 
before  the  entrance  was  reached.  It  had  been  a  delightful 
encounter  and  she  found  herself  wishing  it  could  be  repeated. 
He  was  a  charming  companion — this  man  with  the  questioning 
eyes  and  caressing  voice.  She  was  half  afraid  of  him  but — he 
was  attractive. 

She  started  violently  at  the  sound  of  her  cousin's  voice. 

"  Violet !    Come  here — I  want  to  talk  to  you.'' 

The  girl  threw  herself  carelessly  into  a  chair,  took  off  her 
fur  toque,  ruffled  up  the  gleaming  masses  of  her  pale  gold 
hair  and  then  leaned  back  against  the  cushions. 

"  You  want  me  ?  " 

The  Comtesse  looked  at  her  critically  :  she  was  appraising 
her  as  keenly  as  it  was  her  habit  to  appraise  works  of  art 
which  seemed  likely  to  come  into  her  possession.  The  girl 
was  facing  the  light  and  the  curtains  had  been  drawn  back 
from  the  window  opposite  her.  Her  skin  was  flawless  and 
warm  as  rose-tinted  ivory.  Muriel  de  Brissac  sighed  im- 
patiently. 

"  You  know  what  is  in  this  letter  ?  " 

Violet's  eyes  settled  on  the  square  envelope  lying  by  her 
cousin's  hand.    She  shook  her  head. 
"  No." 

It's  a  demand,  and  a  very  impertinent  one,  from  Cerise  ! 


112  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


These  people  won't  wait  for  ever — it's  no  use  thinking  they 
will.  You've  had  four  gowns  from  her  and  a  theatre  coat 
and — no  end  of  other  things.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it  ?  " 

A  faint  colour  crept  into  the  girl's  cheeks. 

**Do?    Nothing— I  can't." 

"  But  you  must !  She's  a  regular  old  beast  and  she 
doesn't  care  what  she  says.  And  then  she  hears  everything. 
In  this  very  letter  she  speaks  of  your  mania  for  bridge  and 
says  that  if  you  can  afford  to  lose  looo  francs  in  one  evening 
you  can  afford  to  pay  your  debts." 

"But  what  unheard  of  impertinence?  And  who  could 
have  told  her  ?  " 

"  Oh — as  to  that,  one  never  knows.  Just  as  likely  as  not 
she  is  financed  by  Madame  de  Vannes,  or  by  someone  in  that 
set.  Everyone  seems  to  be  mixed  up  in  trade  now  a  days  and 
one  is  never  safe.  It's  always  ten  chances  to  one  that  your 
most  intimate  friend  is  a  tout  for  some  milliner  or  dress- 
maker and,  in  the  *  interests '  of  the  firm  always  on  the 
watch." 

"But  seriously,  Muriel,  what  can  I  do?" 

"  That's  just  what  I  want  to  know.  You  are  such  a  fool, 
Violet !  It  was  none  too  easy  for  me  to  give  you  that  ^loo 
when  we  came  here  and  you  must  go  and  lose  the  greater 
part  of  it,  and  to  that  horrible  de  Vannes  woman  who  is 
rolling  in  money  ?  And  then  to  actually  hand  over  the 
money,  as  you  did,  when  Serge  PlatofT  was  going  to  settle  up 
— as  a  matter  of  course.  It  was  idiotic  but  you  are  always 
doing  these  things." 

"You  think  I  should  have  allowed  Prince  Platoff  to  pay 
my  debts  ?  " 

The  Comtesse  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair  and  her  face 
hardened.    She  looked  at  the  girl  sharply. 

"  Of  course  not — not  really,  but  it  would  have  been  quite 
natural  for  him  to  settle  up,  especially  as  you  are  a  jeune  fille^ 
and  then  it  could  have  been  arranged  afterwards." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  113 


"  But  if  I  had  not  paid  then  I  never  could  have  paid  at 
all.    And  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  *  arranged.' " 

There  was  silence  for  several  minutes.  The  Comtesse  was 
visibly  annoyed.    At  last  she  said  : 

"  Look  here,  Violet,  you'll  have  to  get  out  of  that 
detestable  habit  of  insisting  on  dotting  every  /  and  crossing 
every  /.  In  ordinary  life — in  the  life  of  our  world,  we  don't 
want  to  copy  the  methods  of  the  respectable  young  man  who 
keeps  accounts  in  an  office !  We  write,  and  we  live,  swiftly 
and  flowingly,  and  if  every  t  is  not  crossed  nor  every  /  pipped — 
so  much  the  better  :  people  have  a  chance  of  reading  what  it 
suits  them  to  read.  This  word,  or  this  action,  may  mean  just 
this  or  just  that — or  something  quite  different.  People  aren't 
half  so  mean  as  they're  made  out  to  be.  They  don't  ask 
inconvenient  questions,  or  discover  inconvenient  meanings, 
unless  forced  to  it.  Everyone  knows  that  it's  necessary  to 
play  the  game,  for  if  the  shoe  pinches  you  to-day  it  will  prob- 
ably pinch  your  next-door  neighbour  to-morrow." 

All  of  which  means  that  you  think  I  should  have  allowed 
Prince  Platoff  to  pay  my  debts  ?  " 

"  All  of  which  means  that  you  are  a  sentimental  little 
idiot  and  that  /  can't  spare  a  sou  to  keep  this  woman 
Cerise  from  making  a  scandal.  I  haven't  been  so  hard  up 
for  years." 

**But  you  ordered  four  new  dresses  yesterday  afternoon 
and  you  owe  Madame  Berthe  ten  times  more  than  I 
owe  Cerise." 

Unfortunately,  the  laws  of  the  country  demand  that  we 
should  be  clothed  !  " 

"But  four  new  dresses?  And  two  of  them  will  cost  at 
least  3000  francs  each  ?  " 

More — if  I  decide  to  have  the  gold  Venetian,  but  it 
doesn't  matter ;  the  things  will  be  paid  for — sooner  or  later. 
What  matters  just  now  is  this  Cerise  woman?" 

Perhaps  papa — ?  " 

How  hkely  ! " 
8 


114  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Well,  what  do  you  suggest  ? 
*'That  you  marry !" 
''Whom?'' 

The  Comtesse  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"Someone  with  plenty  of  money.    Comte  Ivan  Apraxine, 
for  example — if  he  should  be  willing.'' 
"That  brute?" 

Madame  de  Brissac  folded  her  arms  and  leaned  back  in 
her  chair. 

"  I  often  think  you  must  be  a  changeling,"  she  said 
sententiously.  "  I  can't  understand  your  being  your  father's 
daughter — or  your  mother's  either,  for  that  matter.  You  are 
neither  '  fish  nor  flesh  nor  good  red  herring ' !  You  love  the 
world  and  want  to  live  in  it  and  yet  you  can't  get  rid  of  these 
ridiculous  ideas  about  love  and  morality  and  high-mindedness 
and  all  the  rest.  You  want  to  rival  the  Borizoff  woman  on 
the  income  of  a  person  like — that  man  Dering,  for  example  ! " 

"  What  has  Mr  Dering  to  do  with  the  matter?  " 

"Very  little — I  hope?  But  I've  an  idea  that  you  are 
prepared  to  indulge  in  a  little  affaire  de  cmir  with  him,  and  I 
assure  you  it  won't  do.  He's  a  nobody  and  a  poor  nobody 
into  the  bargain.  Your  aunt  has  insisted  on  this  portrait 
being  done,  and  she  was  polite  enough  to  make  it  plain  that 
she  wished  you  to  be  chaperoned,  at  the  studio,  by  Miss 
Dering  instead  of  by  me.  I  suppose  she's  in  hopes  these 
people  will  convert  you  and  make  you  see  the  error  of  your 
ways — and  of  mine." 

"  Muriel — please  be  serious.  The  Derings  have  nothing 
to  do  with  this  matter.  What  I  want  to  know  is — what  can 
be  done  about  Cerise?  It's  simply  frightful  to  live  in  daily 
terror  of  seeing  her  or  hearing  from  her." 

"  Marry  a  rich  man  !  " 

Violet  sat  up  straight  and  looked  at  her  cousin. 
"You  have  something  in  your  mind?  " 
"  I  have  the  hope  that  Ivan  Apraxine  may  find  you  as 
agreeable  as  he  anticipates !    I  heard  him  say,  yesterday 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  115 


afternoon  at  the  Palazzo  Farnese,  that  you  were  the  prettiest 
girl  in  Rome.'' 

Violet  flushed  with  pleasure ;  she  loved  to  be  admired. 

**But  he's  horrid  —  you  know  how  frightfully  badly  he 
treated  that  girl  in  Paris?  Everyone  says  he  was  a  perfect 
brute  to  her,  and  that  it  was  his  fault  she  committed 
suicide?  " 

The  Comtesse  compressed  her  red  lips  and  her  handsome 
eyes  grew  hard. 

"  My  dear  Violet,  how  right  people  are  when  they  speak 
of  you  as  'an  extraordinary  jeune  fille,^  You  are  extra- 
ordinary and  if  you  weren't  so  pretty  people  would  soon  say 
that  you  were  very  bad  form.  What  on  earth  is  it  to  you — 
such  an  affair  as  that?  Apraxine  chose  to  pick  up  a  pretty 
girl  from  the  Paris  music-hall  stage  and  to  shower  money  on 
her ;  she^  sentimental  little  idiot,  chose  to  fancy  herself  really  in 
love  with  him.  And  then,  just  because  of  some  practical  joke 
at  a  supper  party,  the  little  fool  throws  herself  into  the  Seine 
and  is  next  seen  at  the  Morgue." 

"*A  practical  joke'?  You  call  what  he  did  a  practical 
joke?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  did — and  certainly  you  cannot 
possibly  know  either.  It  is  not  a  subject  of  conversation  for 
us.  The  jeune  fille  of  modern  life  is  permitted  a  great  deal 
of  liberty,  but  there  are  still  some  subjects  on  which  she 
cannot  speak." 

"  But  you  spoke  of — at  least  you  suggested — the  idea  of 
marriage  ?  " 

"With  Apraxine?  If  only  the  gods  would  put  it  into 
his  head  to  fall  in  love  with  you !  Why,  my  dear  girl — do 
you  know  that  he  is  enormously  wealthy,  and  a  cuirassier  of 
the  Imperial  Guards,  and  the  head  of  his  family?  It  would 
never  have  entered  my  mind  to  hope  that  he  might  think  of 
marrying  you,  but  that  Serge  Platoff,  who  is  his  intimate 
friend,  spoke  very  meaningly  this  afternoon.  Even  now  it 
may  be  only  a  glorious  dream,  but — there  are  possibiUties, 


ii6  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


and  to-night  you  must  look  your  best.  You  can  wear  my 
diamond  comb — the  Grecian  one,  if  you  like,  and  that  funny 
little  old  brooch  of  your  mother's  will  do  very  well  for  the 
front  of  your  corsage,  the  diamonds  are  good  though  the 
design  is  so  old  fashioned.  And  for  heaven's  sake  don't  talk 
seriously  about  things  or  pretend  to  know  anything  about 
anyone,  in  our  set — I  mean  the  little  things  everyone  knows 
and  no  one  mentions.  You  are  at  your  best  as  the  frightened 
dove,  with  your  eyes  wide  open  and  your  cheeks  flushed.  Be 
natural — that's  all  I  ask  you.  Be  natural  and  let  the  man 
see  that  you  find  him  agreeable  and  delightful,  only,  don't 
gush !  Everything  depends  on  the  first  meeting ;  he  has 
already  seen  you  and  he  admires  you — really ;  all  you've  got 
to  do  is  to  let  the  hook  get  well  fixed  in  his  mouth  and  then 
draw  him  in — very  quietly.  Remember  that  if  only  you 
could  secure  him  everything  would  be  right :  Cerise  would 
wait,  gladly,  a  hundred  years  for  her  money,  and  besides 
waiting  she'd  go  on  her  knees  and  beg  of  you  to  order  every- 
thing she  had  in  her  showrooms.  And  so  would  all  the  rest. 
Once  get  engaged  to  a  really  rich  man  and — everything  will 
go  right ! " 

Violet  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment  and  leaned  heavily 
against  the  cushions  of  her  chair.  She  was  thinking  and — 
she  was  feeling  :  feeling  frightened  and  ashamed,  and — not  a 
little  elated.  She  was  a  strange  girl,  in  some  ways  "extra- 
ordinary," as  her  cousin  had  said.  Very  often  it  seemed  to 
her  true  that  she  was  neither  '^fish,  nor  flesh,  nor  good  red 
herring."  She  had  not  the  courage  to  be  "  good  " — altogether, 
and  she  had  not  the  courage  to  be  "  bad."  And  by  "  bad  " 
she  meant  wholly  worldly.  By  nature  impulsive  and  im- 
pressionable the  teachings  of  her  aunt  had  left  marks  which 
had  never  been  entirely  effaced  by  the  teachings  of  her  father, 
and  then  of  her  cousin.  And  further  back — there  were  the 
teachings,  when  she  was  a  wee  girl,  of  her  gentle  little 
mother.  When  she  was  with  Miss  Hilliard  her  interest  in 
the  **poor  dears"  was  quite  genuine,  and  her  affection  for 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


117 


them,  if  uncertain,  genuine  too.  But  then,  unhappily,  her 
keen  delight  in  the  admiration  and  excitement  of  the  world 
was  equally  genuine  and,  at  times,  all  powerful.  And  thus 
she  was  drawn  this  way  and  that,  w^ith  a  strong  desire  to  be 
what  she  herself  called  "good  and  true,"  and  a  fatal  capa- 
bility for  drifting  with  the  golden  stream,  which  flows  from 
the  heart  of  the  world  to  the  gardens  of  strange  delights 
— over  there,  in  the  land  of  mad  dreams  ! 

She  had  what  is  called  a  temperament.  There  w^as  within 
her  the  power  to  feel  keenly  about  things  which  bore  no 
relationship,  one  to  the  other.  She  w^as  a  slave  of  the  touch, 
for  soft  satins  and  filmy  laces  had  voices  that  called  her 
insistently;  she  was  the  slave  of  the  spirit  of  perfumes — 
subtle  and  enervating.  She  w^as  sensuous  but  not  sensual, 
full  of  contradictions  and  of  conflicting  desires.  Very  often — 
almost  every  day — she  found  herself  w^ishing  that  she  could 
make  up  her  mind  finally  to  be  "good''  or  "bad.''  The  two 
bald  words  represented  a  great  deal  to  her.  She  rose 
wearily  from  her  chair  and  took  up  her  fur  cap. 

"I  must  go  and  lie  down,"  she  said.  "I  am  tired.  I 
shall  look  a  wreck  to-night  unless  I  get  some  sleep." 

Her  cousin  looked  at  her  sharply. 

"Don't  you  always  sleep  well?  It  would  be  fatal  for 
you  to  get  worn-looking.  Why  don't  you  take  something 
to  soothe  your  nerves — if  you  have  any  ?  Have  an  absinthe 
now  and  then  lie  down.  The  last  one  you  took  did  you  no 
end  of  good — didn't  it  ?  " 

Violet  shuddered. 

"Oh,  no — no^  not  that.  It  frightens  me.  When  I  took 
it  the  other  day  it  made  me  feel — I  can't  explain,  but  not  a 
bit  like  myself." 

"  I  remember  quite  well  how  you  felt,  for  you  told  me 
all  about  it.  You  said  you  felt  as  if  you  were  w^alking  in 
some  exquisite  garden  full  of  flowers,  and  that  you  were 
wearing  the  most  lovely  gown  you  had  ever  dreamt  of!  I 
remember  quite  well,  because  you  said  that  you  knew  you 


ii8  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


were  much  more  lovely  and  more  admired  than  the  Borizoff 
woman ! 

Again  the  girl  shuddered. 

*'Yes,  I  remember.  It  was  lovely  and  it  was  frightful, 
because  it  wasn't  natural.  I  knew  all  the  time  it  wasn't  natural, 
and  still  I  wanted  to  go  on — and  on — for  ever." 

"And  why  not?  When  I  told  Serge  Platoff  of  your 
experience  he  said  that  you  must  be  one  of  the  elect.  That 
the  green  fairy  most  certainly  had  exquisite  things  waiting 
for  you ! " 

"You  told  Prince  Platoff?" 

"Yes — why  not?  Everyone  drinks  absinthe,  but  it  does 
not  affect  everyone  as  it  affected  you.  Another  time  you  will 
probably  have  different  sensations  but  always  delicious  ones 
— at  least,  so  Platoff  says." 

"How  could  he  know?"  She  spoke  eagerly,  and  in  her 
lovely  eyes  there  was  a  flame  of  excitement.  Then  her  out- 
stretched hand  dropped  to  her  side.  "It  doesn't  matter; 
I  don't  mean  to  take  it  again.    I'm  afraid  of  it." 

The  Comtesse  smiled  slightly  and  took  up  a  book  as 
the  door  opened  and  closed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THERE  are  few  scenes  better  calculated  to  awaken  and 
quicken  memory  than  that  which  may  be  witnessed 
from  the  terrace  of  San  Pietro  in  Montorio  at  the  hour  of 
sunset. 

The  terrace  stands  very  high ;  the  ascent  to  it  is  long 
and  steep,  but  from  that  sacred  spot,  where  it  is  said  St  Peter 
was  crucified,  the  view  is  absolutely  unique. 

Rome  in  all  its  glory,  past  and  present. 

As  one  leans  against  the  parapet  of  the  famous  terrace 
one  sees  far  away,  stretching  to  the  horizon,  the  vast  Cam- 
pagna.  Outside  the  city,  beyond  the  Botanical  Gardens,  the 
great  dome  of  St  Peter's  rears  itself  aloft  in  proud  defiance 
of  time  and  change.  Underneath,  at  the  foot  of  the  Jani- 
culum  Hill,  lies  the  Trastevere  district,  now  inhabited  almost 
exclusively  by  true-born  Romans  of  the  working  classes, 
many  of  them  direct  descendants  of  the  Romans  of  ancient 
days.  Handsome  men  and  women  of  stalwart  frames  and 
sullen  eyes ;  workers  who  daily  grow  more  and  more  imbued 
with  the  modern  spirit  of  democracy.  In  the  flaming  brilli- 
ancy of  a  golden  sun  preparing  to  sink  to  rest  behind  the 
great  dome  which  owes  something  to  Bramante  and  very 
much  to  Michelangelo,  the  dark  fringe  of  cypresses  on  the 
ruined  Palatine  stands  out  boldly  against  a  cobalt  sky,  and 
the  marbles  on  the  terrace  of  the  Pincio  gleam  strangely  white. 
Almost  at  the  moment  when  Underwood  and  Mrs  Waring 
reached  the  terrace  of  San  Pietro  in  Montorio  the  sun  began 
to  sink  very  slowly  and  with  sublime  dignity.  The  world- 
famous  dome  seemed  to  change  colour:  flaming  red,  pale 
gold,  as  the  gold  of  Eastern  cupolas,  and  then  dazzling 
incandescent  silver.    A  moment  Inter  the  giant  Basilica  was 

119 


120  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


bathed  in  deep,  mysterious  blue.  A  sombre  purple  light 
illuminated  the  Janiculum  Hill,  where  the  motionless  cypresses 
looked  black  and  forbidding.  The  whole  sky  had  grown 
purple  and  gold  and  crimson,  and  the  dying  rays  of  the  setting 
giant  sprang  up  and  touched  into  vivid  life  the  crystal 
windows  under  the  cupola.  It  was  a  scene  of  magic  splendour, 
and  the  American  gazed  at  it  long  and  in  complete  silence. 
Then  he  turned  to  his  companion. 

**How  strange  it  seems — and  one  is  reminded  of  it  at 
such  a  moment  as  this — that,  though  times  and  manners  have 
changed,  the  passions  of  men  have  remained  exactly  the  same 
as  they  were  ages  ago,  when  Nero's  Golden  House  extended 
from  the  Palatine  to  the  Esquiline :  when  the  Colosseum 
was  the  scene  of  wholesale  slaughter.  In  those  days  men  ate 
and  slept,  and  loved  and  hated,  just  as  men  do  now.  They 
wore  different  clothes,  it  is  true,  but  in  what  else,  fundament- 
ally, were  they  different  ?  The  race  in  those  days  was  for  the 
strongest,  and  woe  to  them  who  fell  by  the  way.  And  in  these 
days  where  is  the  real  difference  ?  We  talk  a  great  deal,  and 
it  would  not  now  be  considered  good  form  to  peer  through  a 
polished  emerald  at  the  slaughter  of  helpless  women  and 
children,  but  are  we  really  very  different — many  of  us?" 

Clio  looked  pensive. 

"  I  wonder  ?  "  she  said  thoughtfully.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
air  of  determination,  "  Yes,  Tm  sure  we're  ever  so  much  better 
and  nicer.  Lots  of  people  nowadays  give  up  their  time  and 
money  to  helping  the  poor,  and  all  that.  No  one,  in  any 
country,  would  stand  Nero  now,  no  matter  how  rich  and 
powerful  he  might  be." 

No.  His  methods  of  expressing  himself  would  not  now 
be  considered  *good  form,'  but  I  was  not  talking  about 
methods  or  manners ;  I  was  merely  trying  to  think  if  Nature 
itself,  as  understood  by  us,  has  changed.  Nero  was  an 
absolute  autocrat ;  he  considered  himself,  and  his  people 
pretended  to  consider  him,  on  a  level  with  the  gods.  Now, 
picture  to  yourself  some  of  our  modern  leaders  in  a  like 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  121 


position.  They  might  not  organize  gladiatorial  combats,  for 
gladiators  are  no  longer  in  fashion,  and  our  strong  men  of 
to-day  have  a  keen  eye  on  the  gate  money,  but  it  is  possible  to 
conceive  greater  suffering — certainly  much  more  prolonged — 
than  death  in  the  arena.  I  have  gained  considerable  food  for 
thought  since  I  came  to  Rome  this  time,  and  that  food  has 
come  to  me  in  generous  supplies  from  the  Trastevere  region 
yonder.  There  you  find  poverty  of  an  appalling  kind,  and 
dirt  and  sickness  unbelievable.  There  you  find  men  and 
women  of  pure  Roman  blood  who  live  in  the  midst  of 
indescribable  squalor  and  filth.  Men  who  look  at  you  with 
menacing  eyes,  and  whose  hands  seem  to  twitch  with  longing 
to  use  a  knife.  In  all  countries — in  my  own  less,  perhaps, 
than  in  others — the  spirit  of  anarchy  is  rapidly  gaining  strength, 
and  one  day  there  will  be  a  terrible  reckoning;  it  is  inevit- 
able." 

Clio  looked  at  him  in  mild  amazement. 

"  Have  you  been  talking  to  Miles  Dering  ?  "  she  asked 
sententiously.  Underwood  laughed  as  he  bent  forward  and 
leaned  his  arms  on  the  parapet. 

"Well,  yes,  I  believe  I  have,  and  to  some  purpose.  He  is 
a  strange  chap,  but  his  ideas  are  sound  enough.  He  has 
realized  that  the  only  way  any  real  good  can  be  done  is  by 
getting,  if  you  can,  everyone  to  sweep  out  his  own  little 
corner ! 

"  I  often  wonder  whether  he  is  a  saint  or  a  fool  ? 

*'0h,  neither,  of  that  I  am  sure.  Certainly,  he  is  no 
saint,  though  his  ideas  on  things  in  general  are  unusual.  And 
as  to  his  being  a  *fooV  I  do  not  think  I  need  go  into  that 
matter.    You  know  him  rather  well." 

Yes  ?  I  often  wonder  if  anyone  in  the  world  really  knows 
him.  Of  course,  he's  not  a  fool  in  the  ordinary  sense,  but 
then  the  role  of  reformer  is  such  a  thankless  one  and  he  is  so 
clever.    He  might  do  wonders." 

Underwood  squared  his  shoulders,  and  leaned  back  so 
that  he  might  face  his  companion. 


122  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  Do  you  know,  I  think  you  are  quite  mistaken  in  looking 
on  Bering  as  a  reformer.  So  far  as  I  can  see  he  rarely,  if 
ever,  puts  forward  his  ideas;  he  simply  occupies  himself 
with  sweeping  out  his  own  little  corner !  I  really  think,  if  you 
consider  the  matter  closely,  that  he  is  particularly  reticent ;  he 
hardly  ever  attempts  to  give  advice  of  any  kind.  He  just 
goes  on  his  own  way.  Certainly  he  is  not  easily  influenced, 
but  then  he  does  not  try  to  influence  people  actively.  If  you 
come  to  think  of  it  you  will  see  that  he  impresses  himself  on 
one  without  any  personal  effort.  Simply  by  the  force  of 
character  and,  I  suppose,  example/' 

Clio  nodded. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  he  is  not  easily  influenced. 
He's  pig  headed  and  obstinate  as  a  mule.  And  it  seems 
useless  to  try  to  make  things  hum  round  him :  he  just 
laughs  and  goes  on  his  own  way.  I  am  simply  disgusted 
about  Gabrielle  Borizoff — I  so  much  wanted  her  to  like  him, 
and  you  saw  how  things  went.  I  had  fully  intended  getting 
her  to  have  him  paint  her  portrait,  but  now  of  course  it's  out 
of  the  question.  For  some  reason  she  seemed  to  take  a 
sudden  dislike  to  him :  she  was  really  very  nearly  rude  that 
night  at  supper." 

"Yes.''  Underwood  paused  a  moment  and  allowed  his 
eyes  to  wander  over  the  darkening  scene,  towards  the  great 
dome  behind  which  the  sun  had  set.  am  afraid  that 
portrait  will  not  be  realized,  but  1  have  heard  a  whisper, 
indeed  it  is  no  longer  a  secret,  that  Cardinal  Santanini  has 
arranged  for  Bering  to  paint  a  portrait  of  the  Holy  Father. 
Boyenbert  has  been  working  Heaven  and  Earth  to  bring 
this  about  and  now  all  the  arrangements  are  complete.  The 
doctor  himself  told  me  about  it  last  night  and  he  seemed 
ready  to  dance  the  can-can,  he  was  so  pleased." 

"The  Holy  Father?"  Clio's  face  was  a  study.  There 
was  written  on  it  surprise  and  dismay  and  something  of 
apprehension.  "The  Pope?  But  what  on  earth  will  he 
make  of  it — with  his  extraordinary  ideas  ?    You  heard  what 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Dr  Doyenbert  said  the  other  day  about  his  methods?  Is 
he  going  to  wait  and  watch  until  he  catches  the  Holy  Father 
unawares  and  then  snap  him  ?  " 

Underwood  laughed. 
Something  like  that,  I  suppose.  It  will  not  be  an 
ordinary  portrait  —  of  that  we  may  be  sure.  Doyenbert 
believes  it  will  at  once  place  Bering  in  the  niche  which  the 
guardians  of  Art  have  prepared  for  him.  It  will  be  very 
interesting  to  await  results.  The  portrait  cannot  fail  to 
attract  attention." 

**You  may  be  sure  of  it!  Far  too  much  attention.  The 
Pope — of  all  people  in  the  world.  Everybody  in  Rome  will 
talk  about  it  and  pick  it  to  pieces,  and  even  as  it  is  the  artists 
here  are  banded  together  to  deride  Miles  Bering  and  all  his 
works.  Oh — I  am  sorry.  I  had  made  everything  smooth  for 
a  portrait  of  our  Ambassador.  He  admires  the  Boyenbert 
portrait  very  much — he  saw  it  in  Paris — and  Captain  Tuke 
told  me  he  intended  arranging  to  have  a  picture  of  himself 
done.  Now  that  portrait  would  have  done  Miles  Bering 
no  end  of  good,  for  Sir  Francis  isn't  a  man  to  stand  any 
nonsense  and  he  would  have  insisted  on  being  represented 
as  he  is  in  real  life — to  the  average  eye.'' 

There  was  keen  disappointment  in  her  tone  and  the  man 
looked  distinctly  amused. 

"  What  an  enthusiastic  little  tout  you  are !  So  much 
fine  energy  thrown  away.  And  so  you  and  Captain  Tuke 
have  taken  Bering's  future  in  hand?  I  wonder  what  you, 
between  you,  will  make  of  it,  and  I  wonder,  very  much 
more,  what  you  are  going  to  do  with  that  attractive 
young  man  ?  " 

*'Who?    Miles  Bering?" 

"  No  !  Captain  Fenton  Tuke." 

Clio  threw  back  her  head  and  rearranged  her  veil — 
cobweb  tulle,  with  a  black  velvet  beauty-spot  just  at  the 
corner  of  her  mouth  and  another  under  her  left  eye — with 
an  air  of  unconcern.    She  was  wearing  a  smart  tailored  suit 


124  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


of  dark  serge  and  her  hat  was  black  and  set  well  forward  on 
her  silky  hair.    Underwood  looked  at  her  admiringly. 

**Yes — I  wonder?"  he  repeated  contemplatively.  '*Just 
at  the  moment  you  have  a  fancy  for  mothering  him.  Nothing 
would  please  you  better  than  choosing  his  neckties  and 
dealing  out  his  cough  lozenges.  You  would  grow  girlish 
in  the  process  of  teaching  him  to  regard  you  as  a  Con- 
fessor. 

"I  congratulate  you  on  your  talent  for  character-read- 
ing."   The  tone  was  scathing  but  the  American  was  unmoved. 

*'Not  much  talent  required  for  reading  a  12  by  12  sign. 
You  were  shaped  in  what  our  friend  Bering  would  call  *  the 
mother  mould,'  and  you  would  be  an  excellent  mother  for 
that  boy,  just  so  long  as  the  mothering  mood  lasted,  but  it 
wouldn't  be  worth  while.  Your  satisfaction  would  be  short- 
lived and  it  would  be  the  worst  thing  that  could  happen  to 

Mr  Underwood  ! " 

Clio  was  angry  at  last  and  her  eyes  flashed  ominously. 
Underwood  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  I  thought  you  had  too  much  conceit  for  that.  Of  course 
I  never  would  have  said  such  a  thing  to  an  ordinary  woman, 
but  somehow  you  seemed  hors  concours.  Your  belief  in  your 
own  fascinations  has  always  seemed  to  me  impregnable  as 
the  great  Wall  of  China." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Then  the  woman 
flashed  out: 

**Your  candour  is  truly  exquisite  if  your  manners  leave 
something  to  be  desired.  I  feel  crushed  and  exalted — one 
on  top  of  the  other.  My  conceit  is  monumental.  The  worst 
thing  that  could  happen  a  man  would  be  to  marry  me. 
Nature  has  cut  me  out  for  a  mother  ! " 

Monumental'  is  the  word,  but  I  did  not  say  *a  man.' 
I  said  that  particular  boy.  And  as  to  the  mother  mould — 
well,  what  is  wrong  with  that  ?  You  are  not  one  of  those 
women  who  affect  to  despise  it  ?  " 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  125 


**No,  I  suppose  not.  But  you  put  it  so  absurdly.  And 
then  why  should  I  seem  like  Captain  Tuke's  mother  ?  He's 
younger  than  I  am  of  course,  but  not  so  much.'^ 

"  About  two  years,  I  surmise,  if  we  want  to  be  accurate, 
but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.    It  would  not  be  good  for 
you  to  marry  anyone  you  had  to  take  care  of :  you  want  to  be 
taken  care  of  yourself." 
do?" 

"Yes.  I  do  not  say  you  ought  to  marry  a  man  who  would 
boss  you  for  you  are  very  well  qualified  to  take  your  own  way, 
but  it  would  not  do  you  any  harm  to  have  a  master  somewhere 
in  the  background.  You  would  appreciate  him,  never  fear, 
and  by  Heaven  if  he  was  the  right  sort  he  would  appreciate 
you." 

Clio  flushed  suddenly  and  turned  away. 

"  I've  no  intention  of  marrying — again,"  she  said  defiantly. 
The  man  looked  at  her  steadily. 

*'  I  wonder  why  ?  "  he  said.  Is  it  because  you  were  very 
happy  with  your  husband,  or — very  unhappy  ?  " 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  spoken  of  Clio's  husband 
and  the  idea  suddenly  came  to  her  that  she  was  at  a  parting 
of  the  ways.  She  glanced  down  the  spacious  terrace,  now 
almost  deserted,  and  then  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  fine  face 
of  the  man.  Something  in  his  look  made  her  turn  aside,  and 
the  flush  on  her  cheeks  grew  deeper. 

"  We  got  on  fairly  well,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "  I  don't 
suppose  that  out  of  books  people  are  ever  very  happy  or  very 
unhappy.  I  thought  I  was  in  love  with  him,  just  at  first,  but 
— things  happened.    It  was  rather  a  bother  altogether." 

**What  ^things'?" 

There  was  something  compelling  in  the  tone  of  the  deep 
voice,  and  Clio  looked  down. 

**He  drank — rather,  and  of  course  it  wasn't  very  nice. 
And  then — "  she  was  speaking  now  in  answer  to  an  expression 
of  profound  pity  in  the  man's  eyes — "  I  myself  wasn't  at  all 
nice.     I  flirted  —  awfully.     Yes,  I  did " — as  Underwood 


126  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


smiled  and  shook  his  head  in  pretended  horror — "  far  more 
than  you  can  imagine.  I  know  you  think  I  am  rather  a  nice 
sort  of  woman,  but — if  you  knew.  There  was  a  man — and  I 
liked  him.  I  was  going  to  run  away  with  him — really.  I  had 
quite  made  up  my  mind,  and  then — something  happened  and 
I  couldn't/' 

What  was  that  *  something '  ?  " 

Their  eyes  met,  and  those  of  the  man  were  very  eloquent. 
Clio  shivered  slightly  and  bent  over  the  stone  parapet. 

^'  It's  a  horrible  thing,  and  I  oughtn't  to  say  it,  but  I  do 
want  you  to  understand  me  and  not  to  think  I  am  better  than 
I  really  am.  He — the  other  man  was  Charlie's  great  friend, 
and  was  often  at  the  house  and  it  was  so  mean,  only  it  didn't 
seem  mean  then.  And  one  night,  the  night  we  had  settled 
everything  about  going  away,  I  saw  them  together  in  the 
dining-room,  there  were  folding  doors,  and  he — the  other  man 
— was  pouring  out  whisky  and  soda  for  Charlie  and  I  satiJ. 
It  was  nearly  all  whisky,  and  I  knew  he  was  doing  it  on 
purpose  so  that  Charlie  might  fall  asleep,  and  that  ke  might 
be  alone  with  me.  And  then  I  hated  him.  Poor  old  Charlie 
had  been  such  a  bore  and  such  a  drag  but  he  was  always 
straight  in  his  ideas.  He  used  to  say,  about  everything,  *  If 
you  can't  play  the  game,  chuck  it,'  and  it  wasn't  playing  the 
game — it  was  low  and  mean  and  unfair.  I  never  saw  h'm 
again  after  that  night,  and  really  I  did  what  I  could  for 
Charlie  but  it  wasn't  any  good.  It  was  hopeless." 
You  poor,  sweet,  little  woman." 

Underwood's  voice  was  dangerously  caressing  and  his 
eyes  seemed  to  dominate  her  soul  and  to  draw  it  towards  him. 
She  looked  up  into  his  face  and  her  mouth  was  quivering. 

"  Oh— please  don'^.'' 
No.  You  may  trust  me — you  have  trusted  me.  I  shall 
not  make  things  difficult  for  you.  But  I  want  to  give  con- 
fidence for  confidence.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  and 
I  want  you  to  think  about  it,  when  you  are  alone,  and  to  tell 
me  later  on  your  decision.    Do  not  say  anything  now  ;  think 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  127 


It  well  over,  from  every  side,  and  then  decide.  The  case  shall 
be  a  hypothetical  one.  There  is  a  man  who  loves,  very  dearly 
and  very  truly,  a  certain  woman.  And  the  man  is  married. 
His  wife  does  not  love  him.  She  has  never  been  a  real  wife 
to  him.  She  would  lose  nothing,  financially  or  otherwise,  if 
he  set  himself  free.  He  could  set  himself  free  and  it  is  possible 
that  the  other  woman  might  be  induced  to  give  her  dear  self 
to  him.  Their  life  might  be  almost  ideally  happy  for  he 
would  devote  himself  to  her,  and  to  her  alone,  and — I  think 
she  would  like  to  shelter  in  his  love.  It  could  be  arranged 
but  then  the  man  has  taken  a  rather  prominent  stand  against 
divorce,  and — the  woman  is  a  Catholic.  And  still  —  even 
admitting  these  elements  of  difficulty — it  could  be  arranged  if 
both  the  man  and  the  woman  felt  sure  that  in  the  case  of  love 
the  end  justifies  the  means — any  means.  And  in  all  truth  the 
man  feels  sure — quite  sure.  He  is  more  than  willing :  he  is 
longing  and  hoping.  And  so  it  only  remains  for  the  woman 
to  decide — when  she  has  thought  it  all  over.  There  would  be 
great  sacrifices,  but  on  the  other  hand  there  would  be  great 
love.  For  he  loves  her — that  man — with  all  the  strength  of 
his  nature." 

He  bent  towards  her  as  he  spoke  and  the  last  words  were 
whispered  almost  in  her  ear,  but  —  and  hours  after  Clio 
remembered  this — he  did  not  touch  her.  A  meeting  of 
trembling  hands  might  have  destroyed  the  balance  at  that 
supreme  moment,  but  Underwood  "played  the  game.''  The 
decision  was  to  be  a  vital  one.  From  it  the  rest  of  her  life 
must,  of  necessity,  take  colour  and  that  decision  must  be 
arrived  at  calmly. 

In  perfect  silence  he  took  her  back  to  the  carriage  that 
was  waiting  for  them  and  he  did  not  speak  even  when  he 
indicated  by  a  motion  of  his  head  that  she  was  to  return  alone. 

He  was  physically  and  mentally  a  strong  man  but  at  that 
moment  he  was  shaken  with  emotion,  and  when  the  carriage 
drove  away  he  returned  to  the  terrace  and  passed  a  dark 
hour  in  self-communion. 


128  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Life  was  short  and  after  the  grave — what  ? 

And  he  felt — knew^  that  if  he  had  elected  to  throw  his 
personal  influence  into  the  balance,  if  he  had  elected  to 
throw  open  the  sluice  gates  of  his  own  powerful  magnetism, 
he  must  have  won.  The  woman  he  loved  could,  at  a  touch, 
have  been  made  as  wax  in  his  hands,  to  mould  and  shape  at 
his  pleasure.    He  knew  it,  and  he  believed  she  knew  also. 

And  he  had  told  his  story  coldly,  as  the  story  of  a  complete 
stranger  might  have  been  told. 

Something  like  a  curse  on  his  own  folly  rose  to  his  throat 
as  he  bent  over  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  mysterious 
City. 

He  had  tried  to  "sweep  out  his  own  corner."  He  had 
been  influenced,  he  admitted  it  grudgingly,  by  the  memory 
of  something  the  painter  had  said. 

And  after  all — was  Miles  Dering  a  dreamer  and  a  fool  ? 


CHAPTER  IX 


"  TQUT  why  should  one  be  serious?  Serious  people  are 
X3    such  bores.    Everyone  admits  that ! 

Dering  leaned  forward  and  rested  his  elbow  on  the 
wooden  arm  of  the  rustic  seat  on  which  he  and  Violet 
Milliard  were  sitting.    He  was  laughing  heartily. 

"The  way  in  which  you  generalize  is  most  disconcerting. 
It  makes  one  feel  a  fool,  if  not  a  prig — this  perpetual  '  please 
count  me  out.'" 

"  But  of  course  one  always  counts  you  out !  You  make 
a  speciality  of  saying  black  when  other  people  say  white." 

"But  indeed  I  don't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Only  I 
don't  see  why  I  should  wag  my  head,  with  a  simpering  ^  quite 
so,  quite  so,'  like  a  Dresden-china  figure?  Why  shouldn't  I 
— why  shouldn't  you,  really  think  ?  And  why  shouldn't  we 
say  what  we  think,  if  we  say  anything  at  all  ?  " 

Violet  examined  a  glorious  white  rose  she  was  holding 
between  her  bare  fingers — her  long  suede  gloves  were  lying 
on  the  seat  beside  her;  then  she  began  to  pull  off  the 
petals. 

"People  who  *  think'  invariably  think  horrid  things,"  she 
said.  Dering  looked  at  her  a  moment,  then  quietly  caught 
her  hands  and  took  away  the  rose. 

You  are  free  to  make  rash  statements,  if  it  amuses  you, 
but  not  to  torture  a  lovelier  thing  than  yourself." 

"Well — really,  Mr  Dering!  I'm  not  surprised  people 
say  you  are — " 

"  A  bombastic  maniac  ?  I'm  not  a  bit  surprised  either." 
The  painter's  laugh  was  good  to  hear  and  it  was  infectious. 
The  next  moment  Violet  was  laughing  with  him. 

"  Yes,  really,"  she  went  on,  "  you  are  just  a  wee  bit 
9  129 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


eccentric,  and,  of  course,  eccentricity  sometimes  pays,  only — 
not  your  sort,  I  think.'' 

"Socrates  himself  could  not  have  given  forth  a  more 
perfect  truth.  My  sort  of  '  eccentricity  '  emphatically  doesn't 
pay." 

"But  why  do  you  stick  to  it?  Don't  you  mind  when 
people  say  you  are — " 

"A  bombastic  maniac?    Not  a  bit." 

" But  don't  you  want  people  to  like  you?" 

"  Some  people." 

The  dark  eyes  were  so  eloquent  that  the  girl  looked 
down. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  a  glorious  autumn  day  and  they 
were  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  gardens  of  the  Villa  Medici. 
Bering  knew  every  avenue  and  grove  of  that  wonderful 
garden  of  dreams,  and  he  had  chosen  a  seat  which  was  apart, 
without  being  noticeably  secluded.  In  the  quaint  Italian 
garden,  down  below,  carpets  of  flowers  had  spread  themselves 
over  the  brown  earth,  and  a  lingering  flame  of  oleander  trees 
showed  that  summer  had  not  surrendered  her  throne  without 
a  struggle.  In  the  soft  sunlight  the  Casino  rose  boldly  from 
its  hedges  of  box  and  laurel  and  the  waters  of  the  fountains 
gleamed  bright  against  the  dark  of  water-lily  leaves.  There 
was  silence  in  the  air;  the  voice  of  Rome  was  hushed  to  a 
whisper.  Through  the  ilex  groves  of  the  Boschetto  stole  a 
faintly  chill  breeze,  and  the  painter  drew  up  the  silky  furs 
which  had  fallen  from  the  girl's  shoulders  and  fastened  them 
round  her  throat. 

"  I  believe  all  you  feminine  things  must  have  nine  lives, 
like  the  proverbial  cat,"  he  said  softly.  "It's  madness  to  go 
about  at  this  time  of  the  year  in  lace  things  that  would  have 
seemed  fragile  to  Titania." 

She  smiled.  A  tinge  of  unwonted  colour  stained  her 
dimpled  cheeks  and  she  shrank  back  under  the  touch  of  the 
strong,  brown  hands. 

"There  it  is  again,"  she  said  quickly,  "your  unearthly 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  131 


sensibility,  or  sensibleness — I  don't  know  which  is  the  right 
word.    Fve  never  met  any  other  person  with  the  same  mania 
for  doing  and  saying  the  right  thing." 
He  glanced  up  questioningly. 

"  I  wonder  what  sort  of  people  youVe  met  ?  People  who 
have  counted  in  your  life,  I  mean  ?  " 

Violet  laughed.  Then  some  spirit,  of  mischief  or  some- 
thing else,  prompted  her. 

I  think  the  *  poor  dears '  counted  most — really,  deep 
down,  you  know." 

"The  'poor  dears '?'' 

"Yes.  My  aunt's  pensioners.  The  queer  old  people  she 
used  to  visit  and  to  feed  and  worry.  They  were  quaint  old 
things,  but — somehow  I  liked  them.  And  some  of  them  liked 
me — quite  very  much." 

"And  you  were  interested  in  these  'poor  dears'?  You 
used  to  go  among  them  ?  " 

The  surprise  in  his  tone  stung  her  and  her  mood 
changed. 

"  Oh,  yes — when  I  had  nothing  better  to  do.    They  were 
funny  old  things  :  it  wasn't  bad  fun." 
Bering  looked  at  her  seriously, 

"Why  won't  you  let  me  know  something  about  you — 
the  real  you?  What  are  you  afraid  of?  That  I  should  think 
you  too  sweet  and  lovely  ?  " 

He  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  big  fur  muff  and  it  seemed 
to  the  girl  that  he  had  drawn  nearer  to  her.  She  shrank 
back  against  the  arm  of  the  seat. 

"  Oh — please  don't  think  there's  anything  good  about  me. 
I  hate  all  that  sort  of  thing,  really.  I  only  liked  the  *  poor 
dears '  because  they  amused  me,  and  because — they  seemed 
to  like  to  see  me.  What  you  call  *  the  real '  me  is  a  very 
frivolous  thing  indeed,  I  assure  you." 

"And  you  imagine  that  I  condemn  frivolity  and  rejoice 
in  the  solemn  face  and  upturned  eye?" 

"Well  you  do — rather.    At  least,  I  think  so." 


132  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  You  think  me  a  sanctimonious  sort  of  person,  just  one 
degree  removed  from  a  Camp  Preacher  ?  A  kind  of  society — 
shady  society,  of  course — Revivalist  who  might  be  expected 
to  hand  out  tracts  with  a  cup  of  tea  and  to  inquire  after  the 
welfare  of  your  soul  ?  " 

"Of  course  you're  talking  nonsense  now,  but  still — you 
aren't  a  bit  like  other  people,  and  you  have  extraordinary 
views." 

"On  what  subject?" 

Violet  sighed  impatiently. 

"  Lots  of  subjects.'* 

"Name  one." 

Dering  was  leaning  forward,  making  vague  lines  on  the 
pathway  with  his  walking-stick.  It  was  not  easy  to  read  the 
expression  on  his  face.  The  girl  looked  at  him  for  a  second 
or  two.    Then  she  said  defiantly  : 

"  You  have  extraordinary  views  on  the  subject  of  money — 
you  can't  deny  that." 

"  '  Extraordinary '  ?  Because  I  don't  make  a  god  of  it  ? 
Because  I  don't  believe  it  to  be  the  head,  middle  and  tail 
of  existence?  Because  I  hold  the  man  who  hoards  it  or 
wastes  it  to  be  a  scoundrel  ?  " 

"Yes — ^just  that!  Not  about  the  god  and  the  head, 
middle  and  tail  business,  of  course,  but  what  right  have 
you  to  call  a  man  a  scoundrel  because  he  lays  by  a  lot 
of  money,  or  because  he  spends  it  extravagantly  —  or  what 
you  would  call  extravagantly?"  Dering  turned  and  faced 
her. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  imperiously,  "you're  an  intelligent 
girl;  you  have  the  power  to  understand  things — when  you 
care  to  understand  them.  Suppose  that  now,  at  this  moment, 
some  poor  little  children  were  here,  before  us,  and  that  we 
knew  them  to  be  actually  starving.  And  suppose  that  I  had 
in  my  hands  a  big  dish  of  meat  and  hot  potatoes  and  other 
nice  things :  and  that  I  knew  the  poor  small  kids  were  just 
about  strong  enough  to  long  for  a  hearty  meal :  and  that 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


I — remember  always  that  the  dish  of  meat  was  undoubtedly 
mine,  paid  for  with  my  very  own  money — felt  inspired  to  bury 
it  deep  in  the  earth,  or  to  throw  it  away,  where  they  couldn't 
get  it.  And  that  then  the  small  animals  tumbled  down,  just 
here,  and  died !  What  would  be  your  verdict  ?  That  my 
action  was  ordinary — or  *  extraordinary,'  or  merely  brutal  ? 
And  do  you  think  the  word  *  scoundrel '  would  be  entirely 
inappropriate  ?  "    Violet  looked  startled. 

But  you  are  exaggerating — absurdly.  And  things  aren't 
a  bit  like  that." 

**rm  not  exaggerating  ^t  all,  and  things  are  just  like  that. 
Some  of  us  have  the  power  to  make  money — fairly  easily. 
Some  of  us  can  only  keep  life  in  the  body  by  working  the 
body  to  death.  All  of  us  need  sufficient  money  to  live 
decently.  There's  the  position,  and  it's  not  worth  while 
making  a  problem  of  it :  the  way  out  is  indicated  in  big 
letters." 

"  But  you  are  a  Socialist  ?  " 

The  unconscious  horror  of  the  tone  made  Bering  laugh : 
his  face  cleared. 

"  I  don't  know  the  A  B  C  of  Socialism  and  I  haven't  time 
to  learn  it,  but  I  do  know  that  if  we  live  we've  got  to  help 
live  :  we've  no  choice  if  we  place  any  value  on  self-respect." 

"  '  Help— live '  ?  " 
Yes !    We  do  it,  or  leave  it  undone,  in  lots  of  different 
ways.    Very  likely  you  helped  on  the  *  poor  dears '  more  than 
you  ever  realized.    You're  a  sunshiny  sort  of  person — and 
without  the  sun  the  world  would  be  a  dismal  old  place." 

"  I'm  certain  I  never  ^  helped '  anyone  in  my  life,  and 
really — I  don't  think  I  much  want  to — " 

"  Because  you're  afraid  of  being  called  *  goody-goody  ' !  " 

Violet  looked  at  him. 

*'Are  you  very  religious — really?"  she  asked,  and  there 
was  no  mockery  in  her  tone. 

Bering  hesitated,  and  the  invisible  wall  of  reserve  made 
itself  felt. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"Not  at  all — in  the  ordinary  sense,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  know  what's  right  and  what's  wrong — for  me;  and  I'm 
not  ashamed  of  trying  to  do  the  decent  thing  when  I  can. 
In  fact,  I've  never  been  able  to  understand  why  one  should 
be  dubbed  a  *  preaching  bounder '  for  advocating  the  practice 
of  the  elementary  rules  of  civilization.  We  really  were  not 
put  on  this  earth  to  snatch  everything  our  hands  can  reach 
and  hold  on  to  it.  We  aren't — or  we  oughtn't  to  be — purse 
proud  children,  strutting  about  and  showing  off  our  superior 
clothes  and  possessions,  and  sneering  at  the  'poor  dears' 
who  find  it  as  much  as  they  can  do  to  comply  with  police 
regulations  in  the  affair  of  covering  up  their  bones.  There's 
enough  and  plenty  for  everyone  but,  naturally,  the  strong 
ones  are  able  to  grab  twice  as  much  as  the  weak  ones. 
Have  they  the  right  to  hold  on  to  it — that's  the  question  ?  " 

"The  right?" 

"  If  your  world  is  to  be  accepted  as  arbitrator  the  question 
has  been  answered — long  ago." 

"  But  you  don't  accept  the  authority  of  the  world?  " 
"No!" 

Bering  was  smiling,  and  in  the  gathering  twilight  his  dark 
face  looked  very  attractive.  He  was  in  the  picture.  Rome 
was  a  fitting  background  for  the  tall,  sinuous  figure  and  the 
fateful  eyes,  dark  and  luminous,  which  seemed  to  belong 
to  the  soil. 

Violet  felt  her  heart  throb  excitedly:  she  almost  fancied 
she  could  hear  its  hurried  beats.  From  the  first  Miles 
Bering  had  influenced  her  —  curiously:  and  she  knew  his 
influence  was  getting  stronger  and  more  assertive  as  the  days 
stole  by.  She  did  not  want  him  to  become  an  active  factor 
in  her  life,  but  she  was  powerless  before  the  dominion  of  his 
eyes — of  his  vigorous  personality.  She  was  more  than  a 
little  afraid  of  him,  but  the  fear  was  born  of  knowledge, 
imperfect  but  already  disconcerting,  that  he  was  a  man — 
perhaps  the  one  man — who  could,  if  he  set  his  will  to  it, 
completely  dominate  her.    And  she  was  determined  to  resist 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  135 


his  attraction.  It  was  necessary  for  her  to  marry  money, 
and  she  had  come  to  see  that  he  would  never  be  a  rich  man, 
as  she  counted  riches.  She  believed,  in  a  vague  sort  of 
way,  that  he  was  unusually  clever,  and  she  guessed  that 
with  his  magnetic  personality  and  talent  he  might  easily 
become  world-famous.  But  would  he?  That  was  the 
question.  And  was  it  in  the  power  of  anyone — even  an 
exceptionally  beautiful  woman  —  to  really  influence  him? 
To  make  him  see  that  fame  and  money  were  worth  far,  far 
more  than  impossible  dreams  ?  Sometimes  she  fancied  that 
she  could  work  the  miracle — if  she  permitted  herself  to  be 
in  earnest  about  it.  That  he  admired  her  she  knew :  that 
he  already  more  than  admired  her  she  guessed :  and  she  felt 
tempted. 

But  then  there  was  another  side.  She  might  influence 
him :  he,  most  surely,  could  influence  her — if  he  wished. 
And  she  was  beginning  to  realize  that  he  did  so  wish. 

She  rose  rather  hastily. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said.  '*It  wasn't  quite  the  wisest  thing 
in  the  world — this  little  outing  !  You  know  Fm  supposed  to 
be  at  your  studio — ^giving  you  a  sitting  for  that  wonderful 
portrait.  Muriel  de  Brissac  doesn't  bother  much  about  what 
one  does,  but  she  is  always  talking  about  les  convenances^ 

Bering  was  standing  by  her  side.  He  looked  down  into 
her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"  Fm  sure  Madame  de  Brissac  is  easily  shocked,  but  then 
— you're  in  such  safe  company.  I've  many  faults,  but  I 
really  am  almost  needlessly  respectable." 

Violet  laughed  softly. 

"Perhaps?  But  then  all  artists  get  the  credit  of  being 
Bohemians :  one  pictures  them  enjoying  an  uninterrupted  life 
of  wild  pleasure  !  "  Then,  without  waiting  for  him  to  speak, 
she  went  on  rapidly  :  "  ^  propos  the  portrait — I  have  received 
inspiration.  I  want  you  to  make  it  more  or  less  like  that 
wonderful  picture  of  Princess  Borizoff  by  Carlo  Lucci?  The 
general  idea,  I  mean,  and  the  pose — more  or  less." 


136  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Cleopatra  mentally  reviewing  the  possibilities  of  asp- 
poison,  from  an  after-death,  spectacular  point  of  view." 
She  stared. 

"Why  won't  you  be  serious?  It's  a  lovely  picture:  so 
regal  and  such  splendid  colouring." 

"  But  I  am  serious !  Who  wouldn't  be  before  the  sug- 
gestion you've  just  made?" 

"  What  suggestion  ?  " 

"That  I  should  copy  Lucci's  portrait  of  Princess 
Borizoff." 

"But  I  never  said  'copy.'  I  only  said  that  the  general 
idea  was  what  I  should  like." 

"  But  you  aren't  a  bit  like  Cleopatra !  Nor  are  you  the 
least  little  bit  like  Princess  Borizoff — thank  the  gods.  And 
why  should  I  make  you  look  ridiculous?  If  you  want 
to  dress  up  and  get  a  'picture'  made  you  can  go  to  a 
fashionable  photographer." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  make  me  like — I've  never 
seen  the  picture  as  yet?" 

"  Because  there's  nothing  to  see — as  yet.  And  I'm  going 
to  make  you  like — Miss  Violet  Hilliard,  honeymooning  in 
Japan,  I  think !  I  have  had  a  vision  of  you  standing  in 
the  sunshine  near  one  of  the  sacred  lakes — all  amongst  the 
lotus  blossoms." 

"  Do  you  mean  in  Japanese  dress  ?  " 

Violet's  lovely  eyes  sparkled  with  excitement  and  the 
painter  drew  nearer.  She  was  tall  for  a  woman,  but  it  seemed 
to  him  that  her  dainty  head,  with  its  crown  of  pale  gold, 
reached  only  to  his  heart. 

"  Not  very  likely.  All  in  white — some  creamy  laces  and 
soft  silk  crepe  stuff  and  none  of  those  high  collars  that  you 
affect  so  much.  There's  nothing  amiss  with  your  throat, 
either  in  shape  or  colour." 

Something  in  his  voice  made  her  feel  nervous  and  she 
looked  down  quickly. 

"  But  I  don't  see  that  your  idea  is  a  bit  more  natural  than 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  137 


Lucci's.  IVe  never  been  in  Japan,  and  I've  never  seen  a 
lotus  flower  in  my  life." 

"  No ;  but  you  have  a  year  or  two  before  you  ?  And  then 
I  said  *  honeymooning/  " 

But  it's  more  than  unlikely  that  I  shall  *  honeymoon '  in 
Japan  ?  " 

More  than  likely,  I  think.  It's  no  end  of  a  jolly  place — 
if  you  have  anyone  to  show  you  round  who  knows  the  land 
and  the  people." 

Honeymoons  are  out  of  fashion  and  besides — I  don't 
know  anyone  specially  interested  in  Japan." 

You  know  me." 
They  were  walking  slowly  through  an  ilex  avenue,  dusky 
and  filled  with  soft  haze ;  below  them  lay  the  western  terrace 
beloved  of  Galileo,  with  its  border  of  roses  and  its  background 
of  laurel  groves.  The  sun  had  faded  away  behind  Monte 
Mario,  and  the  shadows  were  lengthening  on  the  moss-grown 
steps  leading  down  from  the  Boschetto. 

Violet's  foot  slipped  on  a  lichen-covered  stone  and  Bering 
took  her  hand ;  he  retained  it  as  they  descended  the  long 
flight  of  uneven  steps.  They  seemed  absolutely  alone  in  the 
garden  of  dreams,  and  as  they  walked,  side  by  side,  neither 
spoke.    At  last  the  girl  said  tentatively : 

I  wonder  if  anyone  knows  you — real/y 
The  pressure  of  the  strong  brown  fingers  was  ever  so  slight 
but  it  brought  a  flood  of  colour  to  her  cheeks.  She  twisted 
her  hand  a  little  as  though  wanting  to  get  it  free,  and  the 
masterful  fingers  became  steel ;  then  when  the  petulant 
struggle  was  over  they  opened  softly  as  though  to  permit  the 
prisoner  to  escape — at  will.  Violet  was  looking  straight  in 
front  of  her ;  she  did  not  avail  herself  of  the  opportunity. 
Bering  laughed  softly  and  again  his  fingers  closed  gently  over 
their  prey. 

I'm  not  sure  that  anyone  does — really.    But  someone 
will — one  of  these  days." 
Someone  ?  " 


138  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


You— I  fancy.'' 

This  time  the  girl  made  a  more  determined  effort  to  with- 
draw her  hand  and  the  brown  fingers  opened  without  hesitation. 
They  stood  a  moment  on  the  western  terrace  and  looked 
down  on  the  domes  and  towers  of  Rome.  Away  in  the 
distance  Soracte  and  the  Alban  Mountains  were  fast  melting 
into  the  horizon,  and  behind  S.  Trinita  del  Monte  there  was  a 
great  white  cloud  that  looked  like  a  snow-capped  hill.  The 
haze  of  purest  gold  had  changed  into  a  mystic  mist  of  rose 
and  purple  and  the  breezes  in  the  ilex  groves  grew  each 
moment  more  insistently  chill.  Unconsciously  they  walked 
a  little  quicker  and  Violet  said  rather  abruptly  : 

"Is  it  too  late  for  tea?  I  think  I  should  like 
some." 

It's  never  too  late  for  anything  one  wants.    Shall  we  go 
to  the  English  tea  place,  near  the  Spanish  Steps  ?  " 
She  made  a  little  grimace. 

"I  shouldn't  have  a  rag  of  character  left  if  I  went  there 
alone  with  you.  It's  a  hot-bed  of  gossip.  Everyone  goes 
there — everyone  talks  there  !  " 

"Come  back  to  the  studio,  then?  " 

^*  No — I  don't  think  so.  Can't  we  go  to  some  little  place 
where  there  won't  be  any  English  people  ?  I  don't  think  I 
want  tea  after  all.    I  should  like  an  absinthe." 

Bering  looked  down  at  her  and  laughed. 

*^What  a  spoiled  baby  you  are — playing  at  being  a  femme 
du  monde^  ultra-up-to-date  !  If  you  think  you  are  going  to 
taste  that  beastly  green  stuff  while  you're  with  me  you're  very 
much  mistaken.  But  if  you  don't  care  about  tea — really, 
we'll  go  to  a  quaint  little  osteria  near  here,  where  you  shall  be 
introduced  to  a  *  Deringsling.'  It's  a  rather  fascinating  pick- 
me-up,  and  it  won't  harm  you." 

"  A  *  Deringsling '  ?    What  on  earth  is  that  ?  " 

"An  invention  of  mine  which  is  having  a  small  success 
here  in  Rome.  There's  a  basis  of  Asti  and  little  additions  of 
pomegranate  juice,  sliced  pear  and  a  few  cherries.    At  the  last 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


moment  some  fizzy  stuff  is  added.  It's  a  pleasurable  sort  of 
drink/' 

Late  that  evening,  long  after  he  had  said  good-night  to 
Violet  Hilliard,  near  the  entrance  of  the  Bristol  Hotel,  Bering 
strolled  on  and  on  through  streets  and  squares.  It  was  his 
habit  to  take  long  walks  at  sunrise  and  after  sunset,  and  on  this 
particular  evening  he  was  so  engrossed  in  his  thoughts  that 
time  ceased  to  exist  and  he  was  unconscious  of  environment. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  girl  with  whom  he  had  spent  the 
afternoon,  in  the  gardens  of  the  Villa  Medici :  he  was  realizing 
the  absolute  certainty  that  he  loved  her. 

And  to  him  Love  was  a  tremendous  emotion. 

As  a  very  young  man,  even  as  a  boy,  he  had  dreamed  of 
life  with  the  woman  :  the  delicious  feminine  thing  who  was 
to  embody  his  fond  dreams  and  to  whom  he  would  dedicate 
his  life.  Beautiful  visions  had,  even  in  those  days,  spread 
themselves  out  before  the  magic  casements  of  his  dreaming 
mind. 

He  was  full  of  contradictions. 

By  nature  passionate,  almost  violent,  he  yet  had  all  the 
reserves  of  his  race  and  with  these  reserves  more  than  his 
share  of  fastidiousness.  He  was  a  man  of  unmistakable 
masculinity:  strong,  vigorous  and  healthy.  He  was  no 
believer  in  asceticism  and  the  Moralist  of  everyday  life 
would  probably  have  pronounced  against  many  of  his  ideas, 
but  he  had  his  own  code  and  never  set  it  aside. 

From  Bering  the  married  woman  was  safe  :  he  would 
have  considered  it  the  act  of  a  coward  to  "  make  love "  to 
her,  even  if  a  wilfully  blind  husband  had  been  on  the 
scene.  He  would  as  soon  have  tortured  a  favourite  dog  or 
cat  as  have  done  a  wrong  to  a  defenceless  girl,  but  he  laid  no 
claim  to  the  crown  of  the  celibate. 

His  peculiar  training  had  made  it  comparatively  easy  for 
him  to  defy  the  influence  of  public  opinion  and  he  could  not, 
for  the  life  of  him,  see  why  a  man  should  be  ashamed  of  a 


140  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


kindly  action,  or  thought,  but  the  person  who  called  him  a 
prig  would  have  had  to  justify  the  word  with  the  point  of 
a  sword  and  Bering's  fame  as  a  fencer  had  penetrated  into 
several  European  capitals. 

His  character  was  fine  but  not  at  all  so  unusual  as  people 
supposed.  Many  men  held  the  views  that  he  held— views 
not  infrequently  derided  by  short-sighted  women — but  not 
very  many  men  possessed  his  moral  courage.  Bering  himself 
would  probably  have  confessed  that  his  immunity  from  the 
thraldom  of  on  dit  "  lay  as  much  in  his  contempt  for  those 
who  failed  to  appreciate  big  truths  as  in  any  other  direction. 
He  was  in  the  world  but  not  of  it  and  he  found  it  hard  to 
realize  that  its  dictates  really  had  an  overwhelming  influence 
over  many,  apparently  strong,  characters. 

He  was  exceptional  because  he  was  quite  natural,  and,  as 
a  rule,  people  liked  him  very  much  or  detested  him.  It  is 
probable  that  no  one  had  ever  described  him  as  "  rather  a  nice 
young  man '' ! 

As  he  walked  on  and  on  he  found  himself  on  the  banks 
of  the  Tiber — not  very  far  from  the  Via  Giulia,  and  in  a 
deserted  spot  he  stood  still  and  peered  out  over  the  great 
yellow  stream,  fringed  with  reeds. 

Behind  him  was  a  hidden  garden  and  a  faint  perfume  of 
oleanders  filled  the  air.  Close  by,  on  his  right,  some  cypress 
and  ilex  trees  trembled  before  a  breath  of  chill  wind  and 
then  sank  to  sleep  under  the  star-lit  dome  of  mysterious 
blue.  The  slumber  of  the  ages  seemed  unbroken.  Night 
was  silent. 

He  leaned  against  the  broken  wall  of  the  old  garden  and 
drew  from  his  breast  pocket  a  flat  case  of  dark  blue  suede, 
bound  in  silver.  He  bit  the  point  off  a  cigar  and  lighted  it. 
All  the  time  his  thoughts  were  weaving  glowing  pictures  of 
the  future.  He  was  very  sure  of  himself  and  he  thought  he 
had  some  reason  to  be  sure  of — her,  but  he  did  not  mean 
to  hurry  matters.  It  had  always  seemed  to  him  that  the 
early  days  of  a  courtship  must  be,  ought  to  be,  sweeter, 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


almost,  than  any  others.  There  was  so  much  to  learn — on 
both  sides.  And  how  delicious  would  be  the  lessons — given 
and  taken  ? 

He  held  the  cigar  between  his  fingers  and  threw  back  his 
head  :  a  slow,  triumphant  smile  stole  over  his  dark  face. 
How  lovely  she  was !  How  dainty  —  how  altogether 
delicious  ? 

And  then  he  thought  of  her  indignation  at  his  want  of 
proper  appreciation  for  money  and  for  what  she  called 
fame." 

And  the  artist  within  him  laughed  aloud.  For  he  knew  it 
was  only  a  question  of  time  and  that  "  fame  " — something 
worth  having,  must  lie  at  his  feet.  He  had  the  humility 
of  a  great  talent,  but  also  he  had  the  courage  and  pride 
of  it. 

And  money  ?  His  face  grew  more  serious  as  he  thought 
of  that,  in  connection  with  the  girl  of  his  heart.  She  loved  it 
for  what  it  could  give  her,  and  what  could  be  more  natural  ? 
But  would  it  be  difficult  for  him  to  teach  her  the  true  value 
of  money — and  of  the  things  it  can  purchase?  She  was 
herself  a  human  flower,  rare  and  exotic :  she  was  very 
finished,  from  the  tips  of  her  shell-like  finger  nails  to  the 
heavy  folds  of  hair,  pale  gold  and  soft  as  spun  silk  that 
crowned  her  proud  little  head. 

She  was  exquisite  and  surely  it  could  not  be  difficult  to 
teach  a  creature  so  lovely  the  precepts  of  true  aestheticism  ? 
To  make  her  realize  that  it  was  better  worth  while  to  possess 
a  single  vase,  perfect  in  design  and  execution,  carrying  a 
single  rose — vase  and  rose  worthy  of  admiration  running 
in  leash  with  worship,  than  to  be  the  owner  of  "masses  of 
costly  flowers"  as  described  in  the  newspapers — which  had 
no  meaning  except  that  they  supplied  a  poster-like  splash 
of  colour. 

Bering  knew  that  his  own  weakness  consisted  largely  in 
his  hyper-sensitive  aestheticism.  He  had,  in  an  exaggerated 
degree,  the  power,  common  in  Japan,  of  worshipping  a  thing 


142  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


of  real  beauty  and  he  abhorred — here  again  the  spirit  of 
exaggeration  entered — the  Western  habit  of  indiscriminate 
overcrowding.  The  most  generous  of  men,  and  naturally 
careless  with  money,  he  understood  the  vagaries,  even  con- 
doned them,  of  eclectic  aestheticism.  In  the  old  home  in 
Paris  there  was  a  little  chamber  set  apart — specially  decorated, 
and  paved  in  black  and  white  mosaics — which  he  had  dedi- 
cated to  a  single  piece  of  statuary,  the  gift  of  an  old  friend. 
It  was  insignificant  in  size — ^just  the  bust  of  a  laughing  girl 
breasting  a  foamy  wave,  but  it  was  instinct  with  life  and,  in 
its  own  way,  a  flawless  gem.  Bering  loved  it  and  it  was  his 
fancy,  when  in  Paris,  to  stand  a  living  plant,  a  pure,  white 
lily,  just  inside  the  door  of  the  little  chamber  with  the  sea- 
green  walls.  The  flower  reminded  him  of  the  laughing  girl, 
borne  up  on  a  buoyant  wave,  and  the  girl — might  have  been 
the  portrait  of  Violet  Hilliard  ! 

Was  it  chance — that  strange  likeness?  And  was  there 
such  a  thing  as    chance  "  ?    He  thought  not ! 

All  his  life,  in  half-forgotten  dreams  and  in  blurred 
imaginings,  he  had  seen  that  face — or  something  very  like 
it.  Violet  Hilliard  in  the  delicious  flesh,  cream  white  and 
palest  rose  as  the  herald  of  dawn,  he  had  never  seen  until 
this  autumn,  in  Rome.  But  she  had  been  created  for  him  : 
of  that  he  was  certain.  And  many  times,  in  dreams  and  in 
imaginings,  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  :  a  fleeting  glimpse, 
but  sufficiently  vivid  to  keep  him  faithful  to  his  ideal.  He 
had  always  known  that  she  existed — somewhere ;  his  mate ; 
his  wife — who  was  to  share  everything  with  him,  even  his 
most  "impossible''  ideas. 

He  had  met  her  and  since  that  blessed  moment  his  life 
had  seemed  filled  with  sweetest  music.  He  had  not  spoken 
of  his  love — indeed  he  had  only  just  realized  its  full  strength, 
but  already  he  tasted  triumph.  He  would  woo  her  and  win 
her — that  most  surely :  and  then  he  would  make  her  life  a 
dream  of  pure  delight. 

A  clock  chimed  and  he  recognized,  with  surprise,  the  late- 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  143 


ness  of  the  hour.  He  threw  away  the  burnt-out  cigar  and 
turned  towards  the  Via  GiuHa. 

He  smiled  a  little  shamefacedly  as  his  thoughts  wandered 
to  the  portrait  he  had  undertaken  to  paint  for  Miss  Hilliard, 
his  sister's  friend :  the  portrait  of  the  girl  who  had  bewitched 
him. 

He  knew  that,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  using 
his  art  as  a  mask,  from  behind  which  he  was  communing 
with  the  little  blind  god.  He  had  made  many  studies  for  the 
picture — especially  of  the  little  white  hands  he  thought  so 
exquisite  :  but  were  the  studies  necessary — so  many  of  them  ? 
And  why  had  he  made  them  so  slowly  and  with  such  infinite 
care  ? 

He  had  the  courage  to  answer  the  questions  truthfully, 
if  silently.  And  he  felt  a  little  ashamed.  His  training,  all 
round,  had  been  severe.  From  his  uncle,  from  Eugene 
Carriere,  from  Rodin,  from  Doyenbert,  he  had  learnt  the 
lesson  that  Art  is  an  inexorable  mistress  who  demands 
nothing  less  than  the  whole  life  of  her  devotees?  And  he 
was  coquetting  with  her — for  the  moment? 

He  was  a  little  ashamed  but  exceedingly  triumphant. 


CHAPTER  X 


AFTER  the  night  of  the  supper  at  the  Palazzo  della 
Rocca,  Princess  Borizoff  often  found  herself  thinking 
of  the  Irish  painter.  Indeed,  he  became  so  tangled  in  her 
thoughts  that  she  felt  irritated.  She  was  an  imperious 
woman,  unaccustomed  to  giving  consideration  to  anything 
that  did  not  run  in  leash  with  her  own  ideas,  but  she  was 
conscious  that  she  had  been  discourteous,  almost  rude; 
and  in  her  code  want  of  courtesy  to  one  in  an  inferior 
position  was  inexcusable. 

But  with  this  thought  came  a  fresh  difficulty.  Was  the 
painter's  position  inferior,  and  in  what  respect  ? 

And  then  the  restless  spirit  of  irritation  sprang  to  the 
front  again  and  set  before  her  the  certainty  that  the  painter 
himself  would  merely  smile  at  the  suggestion,  and  that  she 
would  find  it  impossible  to  read  his  smile. 
'  She  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  him  from  Bianca  della 
Rocca,  and  she  was  too  proud  to  disguise  from  herself  the 
fact  that  she  had  gone  out  of  her  way  to  gain  the  informa- 
tion. She  had  not  asked  questions,  but  she  had  directed 
the  conversation,  and  Bianca,  the  soul  of  unsuspecting 
simplicity,  had  run  on  with  enthusiasm.  It  was  evident  that 
the  della  Rocca  family  liked  the  painter  well,  and  equally 
evident  that  they  considered  him  a  budding  genius.  She 
had  heard,  from  the  Cardinal,  of  the  portrait  of  the  Holy 
Father  which  had  been  entrusted  to  Bering,  and  she  had 
tried,  without  great  success,  to  disguise  her  thoughts.  The 
old  Cardinal  had  looked  at  her  with  twinkling  eyes,  and 
she  had  felt  a  little  disconcerted.  In  fact,  a  certain  feeling 
of  discomposure  seemed  connected,  irrevocably,  with  her 
thoughts  of  the  painter,  and   it  fed  her  irritation.  Why 

144 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  145 


should  a  young  and  unknown  man,  an  iconoclast  in  matters 
of  ethics  as  well  as  matters  of  art,  have  the  power  to 
make  her  feel  mentally  small?  To  make  her  feel  that  she 
had  acted  like  a  naughty  child,  and  that  an  effort  had  been 
made  to  cover  her  mistake  ? 

She  had  found  it  possible  to  dislike  the  audacious  painter, 
but  she  had  not  been  able  to  deny  his  strength,  and  mental 
strength  was  the  one  quality  she  permitted  herself  to  admire 
with  enthusiasm. 

To  Clio  Waring  she  had  preserved  a  contemptuous 
silence  on  the  subject  of  Miles  Bering.  She  had  indicated 
that  she  considered  him  outside  the  pale  which  surrounded 
her  life,  and  had  felt  pleased  when  she  saw  the  genuine 
disappointment  on  her  friend's  face. 

Gabrielle  Borizoff  was  capable  of  cruelty,  of  a  subtle  kind 
and  not  physical,  but  she  was  also  strongly  imbued  with  a 
love  of  justice,  and  it  humiliated  her  to  realize  that  she 
had  permitted  herself,  in  a  moment  of  anger,  to  be  unjust 
as  well  as  rude  to  a  man  who  had  been,  just  at  first  at 
any  rate,  her  guest.  She  had  thought  it  all  over  and  then 
she  had  acted. 

She  had  written  to  Bering  and  asked  him  to  call  upon 
her,  mentioning  a  day  and  hour. 

And  on  this  late  autumn  afternoon  she  was  waiting  for 
him  in  her  favourite  green  and  white  salon,  and  as  she 
waited  a  sensation,  which  in  anyone  less  self-possessed 
might  have  been  designated  nervousness,  brought  a  faint  tinge 
of  colour  to  her  delicate  cheeks.  She  was  dressed,  as  was 
her  custom  in  the  afternoon,  in  white :  one  of  those  amaz- 
ingly simple  and  supremely  complicated  robes  of  fragile 
crepes  and  soft  silks  which  are  created  by  great  dress  artists 
for  their  favourite  clients.  Thrust  into  the  folds  of  a  supple 
scarf  of  shell-pink  satin,  wound  round  her  slender  waist, 
was  a  cluster  of  Malmaison  carnations,  and  her  only  jewels 
were  the  lustrous  diamonds  and  milk-white  pearls  which 
covered  her  fingers  to  the  knuckles.  She  looked  very 
10 


146  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


beautiful  but  a  little  impatient  as  she  glanced  at  a  silver 
clock  on  a  table  by  her  side :  just  at  that  moment  Bering  was 
announced. 

When  he  crossed  the  room  to  receive  her  greeting  she 
was  conscious  that  there  was  a  question  in  his  face.  Why 
had  she  done  it?  What  had  been  her  motive  in  asking 
him  to  her  house? 

He  bent  with  the  grace  of  a  practised  courtier  over  her  ex- 
tended hand,  and  then  stood  erect  and  looked  at  her. 

And  now  the  question  made  itself  felt  as  though  words 
had  been  spoken.  Gabrielle  motioned  him  to  a  seat,  and 
the  servants  entering  with  a  tea  table  made  a  momentary 
diversion.  When  they  had  silently  passed  out  and  shut  the 
door  she  looked  at  him. 

**My  note  surprised  you?  You  wondered  why  I  wrote  it, 
considering  that  we  are  almost  strangers  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  think  I  wondered !  Of  course,  it  was  most 
kind  of  you  to  remember  me  and  to  give  me  an  opportunity, 
perhaps,  of  seeing  your  art  treasures  ? 

He  spoke  very  simply,  nevertheless  the  colour  on  the 
woman's  face  deepened  ever  so  slightly.  She  paused  a 
second,  and  then  said: 

''I  invited  you  here  because  I  wish  to  offer  you  an 
apology.  I  think,  indeed  I  feel  sure,  I  was  discourteous  to 
you  the  other  evening  at  the  theatre,  and  afterwards  at  the 
Palazzo  della  Rocca.  You  irritated  me  a  little,  and  I  am 
not  very  patient.  I  was  discourteous  and  I  regret  it.  Will 
you  accept  my  apology  ?  " 

Two  pairs  of  dark  eyes  met  and  exchanged  confidences. 
Then  a  change  showed  itself  on  the  painter's  face ;  he  looked 
genuinely  pleased. 

**But  of  course!  And  there  was  not  the  least  need  for 
such  a  thing  only — I  a?n  pleased." 

He  spoke  with  enthusiasm,  and  his  boyish  manner 
made  her  smile.  She  sat  up  straight  in  her  lounge 
chair. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  147 


"  What  a  boy  you  are !  And  why  are  you  so  pleased  ? 
You  find  it  agreeable  to  see  me  humiliated? " 

Bering  looked  at  her.  Then  he  shook  his  head  and 
laughed. 

"You  aren't  a  bit  humiliated.  On  the  contrary  you're 
enjoying  one  of  the  big  moments  of  your  life.  Only  the  truly 
great  can  express  regret  genuinely.  And  then  from  you  to 
me  ?  You  who  are,  I  am  very  sure,  a  law  unto  yourself,  and  I 
who  was  in  no  position  to  cast  a  stone  ?  For  I  had  not  been 
too  respectful — had  I  ?  '' 

I  am  sure  your  thoughts  were  not  respectful,  if  you  mean 
that?" 

He  looked  mischievous  but  penitent  as  he  pressed  his 
hands  together  in  an  attitude  of  prayer. 
"Peccavi! ''  he  said  softly. 

The  Princess  stared,  and  her  slow  smile  deepened  into 
an  expression  of  introspective  amusement.  She  was  laughing 
at  herself  as  she  realized  that  she  was  already  beginning  to 
understand  why  so  many  of  her  friends  made  much  of  this 
audacious  young  painter.  He  had  "a  little  way  with  him,"  as 
the  old  Cardinal  had  said  in  quoting  an  Irish  friend. 

Dering  looked  up. 

"You  are  amused  at  some  thought  which  you  don't 
mean  to  share  with  me  but,  no  matter.  You  may  laugh 
at  me  now  as  much  as  you  like  for  we  are  nearly  —  quite 
nearly,  I  think — friends."  The  suggestion  was  audacious, 
made  to  that  particular  woman,  but  she  received  it  with  a 
smile. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  sententiously.  "And  now  let  me 
offer  you  my  bread  and  salt,  or  muffins  and  salt,  or  anything 
that  may  be  under  those  covers." 

She  made  a  movement  towards  the  tea  table,  but  Dering 
intercepted  her. 

"Oh,  please  don't  move.  Let  me  make  the  tea?  In- 
deed, I  know  all  about  it :  it's  a  speciality  of  mine.  Please 
sit  still  and  allow  me  to  do  everything.    You  look  delicious 


148  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


in  that  big  chair,  against  the  light.  You  make  what  people 
call  'a  picture.'" 

He  busied  himself  deftly  amongst  the  tea-cups  and  muffin 
dishes  and  the  Princess  lay  back  against  her  satin  cushions  and 
watched. 

She  was  enjoying  a  new  experience. 

Here  was  a  man,  young,  and  keenly  alive  to  the  attrac- 
tions of  physical  beauty,  who  had  managed  to  place  himself 
on  terms  of  extraordinary  intimacy  with  her,  in  a  few  short 
minutes,  but  who  remained  calm  and  self-possessed  as  if 
taking  tea  alone  with  his  sister  ! 

She  found  his  manner  baffling. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  her.  It  was  evident 
that  he  did  not  give  a  thought  to  her  wealth,  her  position, 
her  reputation  as  a  capricious  charmeuse. 

She  was  to  him,  of  this  she  felt  sure,  just  a  woman  with  whom 
he  felt  in  some  sympathy.  It  was  impossible  to  deduce,  from 
his  manner,  that  he  even  found  her  exceptionally  beautiful. 

The  experience  was  amazing  but  she  acknowledged  its 
attractions.  She  watched  him  with  open  amusement  as  he 
carefully  added  butter  to  her  muffin,  and  he,  glancing  up, 
caught  her  smile. 

**Ifs  most  important,  I  assure  you,  that  it  should  be 
done  just  this  way.  These  are  excellent  muffins ;  I  see  your 
cook  knows  how  to  toast  them." 

Gabrielle  laughed  outright. 
He  ought  to,"  she  said. 

Because  he  is  a  cordon  bleu  f  That  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  The  cook  at  the  British  Embassy  gets  a  salary  that 
would  keep  me  in  luxury  for  a  couple  of  years,  but  he's  the 
veriest  duffer  about  toasting  muffins.  I  made  Tuke  take  me 
into  the  kitchens  one  afternoon  and  I  gave  him  a  lesson. 
Old  Sir  Francis  has  been  blessing  me  ever  since.  I  believe, 
as  a  sign  of  gratitude,  he  means  to  ask  me  to  paint  his 
portrait,  orders  and  all !  " 

The  Princess  smiled  tentatively.     It  had  entered  her 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  149 


mind  to  suggest  something  which  she  thought  might  please 
this  extraordinary  young  man. 

propos  of  portraits,"  she  said.    "Are  you  very  much 
occupied  just  now?    I  thought  of  asking  you  if  you  could 
find  time  to  paint  mine?" 
"  ^72^/- portrait  ? 

There  was  surprise  in  the  tone,  and  something  very  like 
apprehension.    The  Princess  looked  amazed. 
"  The  idea  does  not  please  you  ? 

Bering  sat  up  very  straight  and  rested  his  hands  on  his 
knees.    He  was  evidently  perturbed. 

"  It^s  not  that — of  course.  Only,  I  don^t  see  what  I  could 
make  of  a  portrait  of  you.  I  don't  believe  I  have  ever  seen 
you,  and  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  you  would  allow  me  to 
see  you — ever." 

*^Not  seen  me?" 

"  I  don't  believe  I  have — really." 

"Then  you  cling  to  the  idea  that  I  constantly  wear  a 
mask?" 

He  smiled. 

"  But  that's  obvious." 

"You  think  then  that  people  ought  to  lay  bare  their  real 
thoughts  and  ideas  ?  " 

"  He  shook  his  head  very  decidedly. 

"  No  !  I  only  meant  to  suggest  that  I  don't  know  how  to 
deal  with  the  art  of  the  theatre.  I  can  admire  the  ingenious 
construction  of  the  masks  worn  by  women  of  the  world,  or 
women  of  the  theatre,  but  simulated  emotions  baffle  me." 

"  But  just  consider  what  would  happen  if  we,  for  a 
single  moment,  put  aside  the  necessary  little  veilings  you  elect 
to  call  *  masks'?  The  world  would  resemble  an  ant-hill 
which  had  been  disturbed.  People  would  run  here  and  there 
in  a  wild  effort  to  recover  mental  balance.  There  would  be 
no  landmarks."    Bering  looked  amused. 

"  Exactly  !  Only  the  disturbed  ants  would  at  least  recog- 
nize each  other,  and  the  unveiled  denizen  of  your  world 


150  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


wouldn't  know  his  next-door  neighbour.  Most  probably  he 
wouldn't  know  his  own  wife  ! " 

And  you  consider  such  a  state  of  affairs  desirable?" 
"I  think  it  very  desirable  that  we  should  know  something 
of  each  other — we  small  creatures  who  are  permitted  a  short 
stay  in  this  particular  world.  Here  we  are,  each  of  us  with  a 
heart  and,  I  suppose,  a  soul:  with  the  power  to  suffer  and  to 
enjoy  and  to  love  and  to  hate  :  the  power  to  make  life  rich 
or  poor.  Here  we  are,  whether  we  like  it  or  not.  And 
doesn't  it  seem  rather  stupid  to  go  about  pretending — almost 
always  ?  Each  one  of  us  is  real,  endowed  with  certain  real 
qualities — good,  bad  or  indifferent.  And  our  only  value  is 
our  reality.  We  are,  in  a  way,  rather  like  ships  drifting  about 
on  the  sea  of  life,  and  what  would  happen  if  on  real  ships 
misleading  signals  were  used?  You  profess  to  admire  pre- 
tences, but  if  you  happened  to  be  hungry  which  would  you 
prefer,  a  beautiful  glazed  turkey  made  of  papier  macM^  like 
those  in  the  windows  of  a  pastrycook's  shop,  or  a  homely 
mutton  chop  ?  The  turkey  might  be  much  the  prettier 
article  of  the  two,  but — if  you  happened  to  be  hungry?" 

"But  do  you  think  we  are  ever  *  hungry'  for  the  real 
houghts  and  feelings  of  our  fellow-ants?" 

I  am." 

"  You  are  then  an  Apostle  of  Nature  ?  " 

"I  know  that  Nature  is  the  only  thing  worth  bothering 
about.  What  is  Art  —  any  art — but  an  understanding  of 
Nature?  The  foundation  of  everything  worth  while  must 
be  Nature.  Of  course  when  the  foundation  is  firmly  set  one 
can  give  reign  to  personal  temperament.  The  alphabet  of  all 
the  arts  is  the  alphabet  of  life,  and  it's  composed  of  just 
six  letters — Nature.  If  you  don't  know  the  alphabet  of  a 
language  you  can't  make  words.  You  can't  adequately 
express  yourself." 

"  But  a  keenly  observant  person  ought  to  be  able  to  read 
between  the  lines.  He  ought  to  be  able  to  divine  which  is 
mask  and  which  is  reality." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


*^In  a  woman  of  the  world?  In  you — for  example?" 
She  made  a  gesture  of  assent.    Bering  shook  his  head. 

"A  dangerous  experiment!  In  the  arts,  as  in  life,  the 
important  point  is  the  just  appreciation  of  values.  If  one's 
values  are  wrong  the  picture,  statue,  book,  scheme  of  life — all 
will  be  distorted  and  out  of  proportion." 

"And  it  is  because  you  are  afraid  of  getting  your  values 
wrong  that  you  refuse  to  paint  my  portrait  ?  " 

**Yes.  Because  I  am  very  sure  I  should  get  my  values 
wrong !  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  You  have  grown  so 
accustomed  to  wearing  masks,  varied,  intricate  and  subtle, 
that  it  would  be  very  difficult  even  for  you  yourself  to 
separate  the  wheat  from  the  tares.  You — since  you  permit 
me  to  speak  personally — have  adopted  a  particularly  com- 
plicated series  of  masks,  for  you  wish  to  deceive  yourself  as 
well  as  those  around  you.  You  have,  deliberately  and  with 
intention,  crossed  swords  with  Nature.'' 

"  You  do  not  think  you  are  drawing  inspiration  from  your 
imagination  ?  " 

No  j  from  what  I  know  to  be  actual  fact.  You  have 
often  said  to  yourself — *yes,  I  have  this  lovely  quality  and 
that  tender  little  impulse  but  they  are  commonplace  things, 
and  I  am  going  to  stifle  them.  I  do  not  want  them,  and  no 
one  else  shall  have  a  chance  of  enjoying  them.'  And  then  it 
has  happened  that  when  one  of  these  divine  little  impulses 
has  insisted  on  making  itself  felt,  when  it  has  mustered  courage 
to  tap  rather  loudly  against  the  door  of  your  heart,  you  have 
sent  out  your  spirit  of  masks  to  muzzle  it.  Yes — indeed  it's 
true  " — in  answer  to  a  mocking  smile.  Of  course  the  happen- 
ings at  the  supper  at  the  Palazzo  della  Rocca  are  now  com- 
pletely wiped  out,  but  to  explain  my  meaning  let  me  remind 
you  of  your  feelings  when  the  Duca  said,  *  if  anyone  had  done 
all  that  for  me  when  I  was  Gigi's  age  I  should  not  be  sitting 
in  this  chair  now.'  You  like  him  very  much  and  you  like  the 
Duchessa ;  you  knew  very  well  it  was  worth  while  to  help  that 
small  boy  to  buck  up  and  make  a  fight  of  it,  but  you  wouldn't 


i52  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


allow  your  real  nature  to  speak.  You  wanted  to  hit  me^  and 
for  the  moment  you  didn't  care  how  much  you  hurt  the  others. 
I  was  studying  you  that  night,  and  I  almost  saw  that  small 
spirit  of  sympathy  struggling  to  the  front,  only  to  find  itself 
smothered  in  an  inartistic  mask  and  hustled  aside." 
^*Mr  Bering  ! 

There  was  amazement  and  displeasure  in  the  voice,  and 
the  painter  looked  up  questioningly.  Then,  as  a  faint  smile 
stole  across  her  beautiful  face,  he  became  suitably  penitent. 

"  Please  forgive  me  ;  I  remind  myself  of  a  Socialist  friend 
of  mine,  who  is  only  happy  when  he  can  mount  the  handrail 
of  a  wagonette  in  Hyde  Park  and  harangue  the  people  until 
he  has  bawled  himself  hoarse.  Of  course  you'll  never  ask  me 
here  again — I  couldn't  expect  it,  but  somehow,  you  tempted 
me  to  talk.  I  wish  to  think  that  you  are  nearly  as  much  in 
fault  as  I  am.'' 

Her  sense  of  humour  won  the  day  and  she  smiled  outright. 

*^0h,  yes,  I  shall  ask  you  here  again,  and  often.  You 
interest  me  very  much,  and  I  begin  to  feel  interested  in  my- 
self, now  that  you  have  taken  me  a  little  way  behind  the 
scenes.  I  do  not  think  any  other  person  has  ever  seen  me 
with  your  eyes — certainly  no  one  has  said  so,  but  you  are 
refreshing.  I  think  I  shall  appoint  you  my  secular  confessor ; 
I  believe  that  with  you,  as  with  a  Priest  in  the  Confessional, 
one  would  be  quite  safe  from  betrayal." 
You  pay  me  a  high  compliment." 

A  wandering  breeze  stole  in  from  the  terrace,  the  Princess 
shivered  slightly,  and  he  crossed  the  salon  to  a  couch  on 
which  was  thrown  a  scarf  of  snowy  satin  and  marabou.  He 
brought  it  to  her  and  gently  wrapped  it  round  her  shoulders. 
There  was  something  characteristic,  something  very  definite 
about  the  action.  It  was  gentle,  almost  caressing  but  decisive. 
It  seemed  to  show  her  his  attitude  towards  women,  and  it 
made  her  appreciate  his  powers  of  observation.  So  far  as  she 
knew  he  had  never  turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the 
distant  couch,  yet  he  knew  that  her  wrap  was  lying  on  it. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  153 


She  smiled  as  she  thanked  him  and  nestled  down  amongst 
the  soft  feathers. 

^*  I  wonder  if  I  might  speak  quite  frankly  to  you?"  she 
said.  Bering  smiled  and  nodded  his  head.  "Well — since 
you  so  much  admire  what  is  natural  I  will  tell  you  what  is  in 
my  mind.  I  have  a  wish  that  we  should  sweep  away  con- 
ventions and  become  friends.  Will  you  consent  ?  Will  you 
speak  to  me  without  restraint  —  as  you  would  to  an  old 
friend?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily;  his  eyes  were  grave  and 
searching. 

"  So  far  as  may  be  possible — yes.    Since  you  wish  it.'' 

You  mean  that  there  must  be  reservations?  " 
"Naturally  —  if  you  elect  to  discuss  personal  subjects. 
But  I  don't  imagine  my  personality  would  interest  you  very 
much?" 

I  think  it  would." 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Well  —  where  shall  we  begin  ?  Past,  present  or 
future  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  want  first  to  find  out  wky  you  said,  the  other 
night  at  the  theatre,  that  I  am  an  Idealist  ?  " 

"  Ah — that's  better.  I  much  prefer  the  delicate  and 
subtle  hors-d^ceuvres  to  the  more  easily-digested  rdti^ 

"  You  consider  yourself  particularly  digestible  ?  " 

"  Fairly  so.  Certainly  very  much  more  so  than  certain 
mysterious  hors-d^oeuvres  which  tempt  the  palate  and  confuse 
the  healthy  taste." 

"  Has  anyone  ever  accused  you  of  lack  of  audacity  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  no  one !  But  then  my  audacity  is  diluted 
with  a  keen  sense  of  justice.  If  people — even  beautiful 
Princesses — say  *  let  us  become  friends  '  they  say  a  big 
thing.  Friends  have  equal  rights — they  are  sexless.  The 
stronger  must  help  the  weaker,  that's  all." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  me  to  understand  that  I  am  not  to 
look  for  mercy  ?  " 


154  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  I  mean,  chlre  Madame^  that  now  when  you  ask  me  a 
question  I  shall  give  the  true  answer — or  remain  silent." 

*'Yes?"  The  Princess  pressed  her  head  against  the 
cushions  of  her  chair  for  a  moment  and  closed  her  dark  eyes. 
She  had  a  strange  sensation  of  being  carried  out  of  her  depth. 
Then  a  little  whimsical  smile  curved  her  lips  and  she  looked 
at  her  guest  through  half-closed  eyes. 

"Have  you  any  special  engagements  this  afternoon?  I 
wish  to  have  plenty  of  time  to  discuss — the  rdtiP 

There  was  something  infectious  about  Bering's  laugh.  It 
was  extraordinarily  boyish.  It  was  several  seconds  before 
his  face  was  again  serious. 

Engagements,  except  the  one  in  which  I  am  now  taking 
delight,  do  not  exist.  I  am  at  your  service — entirely  and 
completely.  But  you  must  remember  that  after  the  roti  come 
the  exciting  savouries  and  they  are  never  of  the  male  sex." 

"Monsieur  Bering — I  think  we  have  decided  to  leave 
sex  out  of  the  question  and  I  have  ultra-modern  ideas.  I 
prefer  to  finish  with  the  rdti.^^ 

He  bowed  his  head  in  mock  submission  and  waited.  She 
hesitated  a  moment  and  then  continued : 

"  You  said  I  had  the  hands  of  an  idealist.  Bid  you  mean 
that  ?    And  what  led  you  to  suppose  such  a  thing  ? 

"I  believe  I  wanted  to  tease  you — ^just  a  little,  but  of 
course  you  know  you  are  an  idealist.  More  than  that — you're 
what  people  call  *  a  sentimentalist.' " 

"  I  ?  " 

"  Yes !  And  you  have  hidden  away  somewhere  a  great 
well  of  sympathy  and  understanding.  And  it's  because  I 
know  that  well  exists  that  I  think  it's  such  an  awful  pity  you 
should  be  dominated  by  the  spirit  of  masks.  Sympathy  is 
great,  but  understanding — the  brand  you  possess — is  divine. 
It  can  do  more  to  oil  the  wheels  of  life  than  any  other 
thing." 

"  But  why  should  you — who  know  little  or  nothing  of  me — 
suppose  that  I  possess  these  qualities  ?  " 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  155 


"You  think  I  know  little  or  nothing  of  you?  I  assure 
you  youVe  mistaken  !  I  know  how  much  and  how  little  you 
like  flowers.  I  know  how  much  and  how  little  you  consider 
people.  I  know  how  much — there's  no  *  little '  in  this 
connection — you're  the  creature  of  custom.  I  know  that  you 
might  be  an  Empress  and  that  you  elect  to  be  a  slave.  I 
know  that  it's  your  habit  to  mock  at  people  and  ideas  and 
actions — and  at  yourself!  I  know  lots  of  other  things  about 
you  but  perhaps  these  are  sufficient — for  the  present  ? '' 

"  You  are  an  extraordinary  person! " 

The  Princess  was  sitting  up  straight  now  and  was  gazing 
at  her  visitor  with  eyes  full  of  genuine  amazement.  He  kept 
his  face  quite  serious  for  a  second  or  two  and  then  a  smile 
broke  loose. 

"  I  ought  to  be  in  a  lunatic  asylum — so  lots  of  the  fellows 
here  say.  Well — Princess,  there's  yet  time  for  you  to  draw 
back.  Our  compact  of  friendship  has  not  been  sealed.  Shall 
I  consider  my  name  effaced  from  your  visitors'  list  ?  " 

"No — anything  but  that!  I  have  appointed  you  my 
secular  confessor  and  you  shall  have  all  the  rights  belonging 
to  such  an  important  office.  Here  is  my  hand  upon  the 
contract."  She  stretched  out  her  hand  towards  him  and 
Dering  extended  one  of  his,  as  a  brown  pillow,  to  receive 
it.  He  bent  his  head  and  touched  the  creamy  skin  with 
his  lips. 

"Signed  and  sealed.  It  was  awfully  cheeky  of  me  to 
say  those  things,  but  really — you  are  too  splendid  to  be  a 
slave." 

"  You  mean  that  I  do  not  try  to  liberate  myself  from  the 
camisole  de  force  of  idiotic  customs  ?  " 

"  Just  that.  And  it's  no  end  of  a  pity.  There  are  lots  of 
people  who  are  really,  genuinely,  satisfied  with  the  world  of 
masks :  who  are  not  really  wearing  masks  at  all  since  they 
have  not  got  it  in  them  to  do  anything  but  troop  after  the 
wether  bell.  They  were  born  sheep,  and  sheep  they  have 
remained — and  they  are  quite  happy.    It's  their  nature  to 


156  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


say  *  yes '  when  someone  else  says  *  yes  '  and  *  no  '  when  all 
the  rest  of  the  sheep  say  *no.'  Fashion  is  their  god  and 
Custom  is  their  high-priest.  They  are  incapable  of  originality 
— of  thought,  word  or  action !  But  you  ?  That's  a  very 
different  matter.  You  have  so  many  fine  qualities — nearly  all 
the  necessary  ones  for  a  perfect  life,  and  yet  you  permit 
yourself  to  be  led  by  custom  ;  you  even  permit  yourself  to  be 
bored  by  custom.  You  mock  at  any  other  world  than  Le 
monde  ou  Von  s^ennuie  and  yet  you're  like  Chateaubriand — 
Touriste^  Ambassadeur,  Ministre  or  amant,  a  peine  arrivi  il 
s^ennuieJ'^ 

"  Yes.  That  is  very  true.  I  am  bored  to  death,  almost 
always.    I  believe  everyone  is." 

"You  are  mistaken.  People  who  have  the  courage  to 
study  Nature's  alphabet  are  never  bored ;  they  find  too  much 
to  learn." 

You  really  think  that?    You  do  not  admit  that  the  study 
of  Nature  might  become  a  little  monotonous  ?  " 
Bering  laughed  softly. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  about  country  roads  and  racing  clouds 
just  then.  Nature  means  something  besides  flowers  and 
fields  and  people  who  are  uncertain  about  the  use  of  a  fork. 
For  instance,  you,  the  most  cultured  and  exotic  of  women,  are 
interesting — at  least  to  me — because  of  the  impress  Nature 
has  left  upon  you,  mentally  and  physically.  One  could  never 
be  bored  in  your  society  because  one  would  always  have 
something  fresh  to  learn.  Just  why  your  eyes  should  be  free 
agents  while  your  lips,  usually  the  tale-bearers  of  the  face,  are 
well  under  control?  Why  your  hands  should  be  cruel  and 
tender  and  never,  in  any  line,  the  hands  of  a  mother  ?  Why 
you  should  hold  the  world  in  contempt  and  yet  permit  it  to 
rule  your  life?    Those  and  many  other  things." 

"  You  are  very  observant !  " 
You  do  not  now  accuse  me  of  too  much  imagination?" 

She  smiled  deprecatingly. 
No.    I  admit  that  you  know  your  way  behind  the  scenes 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  157 


— more  or  less,  but  I  do  not  admit  that  the  study  of  Nature 
is,  or  could  be,  a  cure  for  ennui.  We  were  not  all  made  in 
the  same  mould.  The  thing  that  might  interest  you  might  not 
interest  me  at  all." 

"  Of  course.  But  in  the  realities  of  life  there  are  elements 
which  must  interest  everyone.  There  are  enough,  and  all 
different,  to  go  round  many  times." 

"  But  suppose  I  do  not  care  about  these  realities?'' 

"But  you  do.  You  know  very  well  that  to  have  value 
a  thing  must  be  genuine  —whether  it  be  a  picture  or  a  vase  or 
a  length  of  lace  or — a  woman !  The  imitation  stuff  may  be 
very  pretty  but  it  has  no  value.  Anyone  with  an  intelligent 
eye  and  a  clear  brain  will  quickly  see  behind  the  pretence  and 
then  the  thing  won't  be  given  house  room.  These  real  things 
may  not  be  attractive,  some  of  them,  but  they  cannot  fail  to 
possess  interest.  You  may  not  feel  in  sympathy  with  a  single 
word  uttered  by  some  genuine  thinker,  but  his  ideas  cannot 
fail  to  interest  you,  simply  because  they  are  the  outcome  of 
original  matter,  not  a  warmed-up  hash  of  popular  opinion. 
And  it's  so  right  through." 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  woman  wandered  over  the  brown 
face  which  she  was  beginning  to  find  very  attractive.  She  was 
not  prepared  to  agree  with  the  painter's  ideas  but  as  to  the 
charm  of  his  personality  she  had  no  doubt.  He  was  bent  on 
undermining  the  foundations  of  her  world,  but  he  pleased 
her. 

"Mr  Dering,"  she  said,  "I  wonder  if  you  are  overlooking 
the  gulf  which  lies  between  the  temperament  simple  and  the 
temperament  complex?  Is  it  not  possible  that  you  are  not 
allowing  for  differences — immense  differences — in  education 
and  environments?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  believe  we  should  agree  with  regard  to  those 
temperaments — *  simple'  and  *  complex'.  Your  world  never 
tires  of  deriding  so-called  simple  things  and  people,  but  it  not 
infrequently  happens  that  the  simple  ones  of  the  earth  are 


158  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


finely  aesthetic.  Of  those  devastating  microbes  iant  and  trop 
which  rob  your  life  of  half  its  joys  they  know  nothing,  and  for 
that  very  reason  it  sometimes  happens  that  for  them  the  pink 
flame  of  cherry-blossom  in  April  calls  up  visions  of  subtle 
delight.  You  are  all  terribly  cultured,  oppressively  civilized, 
you  dwellers  in  le  monde  ou  Pon  s^ennuie,  but  I  know  simple 
creatures  whose  lives  would  seem  to  you  utterly  banal  who 
could  teach  you  what  aestheticism  really  means;  how  much 
poetry  is  embraced  in  the  folded  heart  of  one  of  these  roses 
with  which  your  salon  is  so  crowded.  Take  the  single 
instance  of  flowers.  What  are  they  really  to  you  ?  Are  they 
not  just  scenic  effects?  Things  which  help  to  make  your 
salon  ultra-luxurious?" 

"  You  think  I  do  not  love  flowers  ? 
I  think  you  like  them,  chiefly,  because  they  are  decora- 
tive. If  you  really  loved  them  you  would  take  trouble  to  see 
they  were  not  crushed  together  so  that  their  dainty  dresses 
must  suffer,  and  you  wouldn't  order  them  to  be  thrown  out  by 
a  careless  servant  when  they  had  given  you  all  the  glory  of 
their  lives/' 

"  But  what  can  one  do  with  faded  flowers?    It  is  necessary 
to  throw  them  away." 
Bering  smiled. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "all  things  faded  have  to  be  put  away — 
it's  one  of  Nature's  laws.  Only,  it  seems  to  me  that  things 
which  have  been  very  beautiful  and  sweet  deserve  special  care 
when  the  shadows  have  descended  on  them." 

He  spoke  softly  and  his  eyes  grew  dreamy  as  they 
wandered  out  to  the  rose-bordered  terrace,  where  the  heralds 
of  twilight  were  already  beginning  to  gather.  The  Princess 
watched  him  intently.  It  was  a  little  time  before  she  broke 
the  silence. 

"  Since  I  have  appointed  you  my  secular  confessor  I  think 
I  must  ask  you  to  explain  something  that  puzzles  me — a  little. 
You  are  a  keen  observer,  that  is  certain,  but  I  cannot  follow 
you  when  you  accuse  me  of  following  the  ^wether  bell.'  You 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  159 


are  the  first  person  who  has  ever  accused  me  of  want  of 
originality." 

He  hesitated.    Then  he  said  : 

"  Certainly  you  are  *  original ' — because  you  wish  to  be 
original.  But  don't  you  remember  the  phrase  I  quoted  the 
other  night?  —  V originalite  voulne  7iexiste  pas.  Si  elk  esi 
voulue  elle  devient  une  convention!  " 

The  Princess  looked  at  him  in  silence.  She  was  a  very 
intelligent  woman  and  her  thoughts  were  following  the  trail  of 
an  unwelcome  suggestion. 

He  was  certainly  extraordinary,  this  painter. 

A  faint  smile  stole  into  her  face  as  she  remembered  having 
heard  Dr  Doyenbert  say,  in  Bianca  della  Rocca's  salon : 
Dering  sait  voir  ce  que  nous  ne  voyons  plus  a  force  de  le 
voirJ^ 

As  the  silence  became  oppressive  she  said : 
"  I  cling  more  closely  than  ever  to  my  idea  that  environ- 
ments have  immense  influence  on  character.  I  find  myself 
wishing,  very  much,  that  I  had  had  an  opportunity  of  meeting 
your  uncle.  I  have  heard  of  him  from  Mr  Underwood.  He 
must  have  been  a  wonderful  man." 

"Uncle  Jack?  Oh — I  don't  think  he  was  wonderful. 
He  was  just  one  of  the  best,  but  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  you 
would  have  liked  him.  He  was  a  terribly  downright  person 
and  his  ideas  were  simple  enough  to  be  dubbed  primeval.  I 
often  look  back  with  delight,  though  it  didn't  seem  at  all 
funny  at  the  time,  to  a  most  unmerciful  thrashing  he  gave  me 
when  I  was  a  youngster.  I  forget  what  I  had  actually  done 
but  I  know  he  believed  I'd  been  false  to  his  code  of  decent 
conduct.  He  had  an  ^^arm  like  a  blacksmith  and  his  temper 
was  up.  Between  the  whacks  of  the  cane,  as  a  sort  of 
enif^acte^  he  said — I  have  never  forgotten  the  exact  words — 
*  You  miserable  young  cub,  don't  you  know  that  you're  not  fit 
to  live  if  you  don't  give  a  chap  a  leg  up  when  he  has  fallen  ? 
More  than  that,  don't  you  know  that  hanging  would  be  too 
good  for  you  if  you  gave  him  a  kick  when  he  was  down?' 


i6o  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


For  weeks  my  back  was  raw  after  that  lesson  and  you  may  be 
sure  IVe  never  forgotten  it.  If  you  are  interested  in  Uncle 
Jack — there  you  have  him  !  The  philosophy  of  his  life  was 
contained  in  those  words  !  " 

"  And  it  was  your  uncle  who  made  you  think  that  money 
is  not  an  important  element  in  every-day  life?" 

Bering  looked  surprised. 

**But  I  know  it  to  be  a  most  important  element.  One 
can  do  very  little  without  it." 

"And  you  resolutely  refuse  to  make  money  —  in  an 
ordinary  way  ?  " 

"  You  mean  that  I  don't  care  about  painting  pretty  pictures 
of  imaginary  people  ?  " 

"  More  or  less  !  With  your  views  about  helping  people — 
I  have  heard  of  them  from  Mrs  Waring — I  wonder  you  do 
not  think  it  necessary  to  make  large  sums  of  money — in  any 
honest  way.    You  could  do  so  much  good  with  it." 

The  painter  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"I  wonder  if  you  are  speaking  seriously?  Yes?  Well, 
I  don't  mind  confessing  that  you  have  put  your  finger  on  a 
wobbly  point  in  my  philosophy.  I  see  very  clearly  what  can 
be  done  with  money,  but  then  I  also  see  clearly  that  one  owes 
a  good  deal  to  oneself.  It's  so  fatally  easy  to  argue  to  a  finish 
from  different  stand-points  that  the  only  thing  to  do,  I  think, 
is  to  remain  true  to  one's  ideal — if  such  an  ideal  exists. 
Uncle  Jack  used  to  say  that  I  could  be  led  almost  anywhere 
by  sentiment,  and  as  he  had  an  absolute  horror  of  pot-boilers 
he  had  me  taught  a  craft.  He  knew  that  if  I  ever  chanced 
to  see  the  light  I  should  necessarily  have  to  do  a  good  deal 
of  groping  before  I  could  reach  it  and  he  recognized  the 
necessity  for  bread-and-butter-money." 

"  And  your  '  craft '  ?  " 

The  Princess  spoke  eagerly.  She  made  no  secret  of  the 
fact  that  her  interest  was  aroused. 

"Oh,  wood-carving.  I  have  done  some  fairly  nice  little 
things.    I  learned  a  lot  when  I  was  in  Japan  with  my  friend 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  i6i 


Takeda,  who  is  a  famous  wood-carver.  Do  you  care  for  that 
sort  of  thing  ?  Will  you  let  me  send  you  up  a  small  Japanese 
girl,  a  shirabyoshi,  in  box-wood  ?  It  is  a  quaint  little  thing, 
about  eight  inches  high;  I  think  you  would  like  it.  You 
have  read  Hearn's  Glimpses  of  Unfamiliar  Japan?  You 
remember  the  chapter,  *  Of  a  dancing  girl '  ?  Takeda  and 
I  were  travelling  from  Kyoto  to  Yedo  when  I  first  read  it 
and  that  dancing  girl  haunted  me.  He  painted  a  kakemono 
for  me  from  the  written  description  of  the  one  done  by  ^  the 
Master '  and  I  made  several  studies  of  the  girl  as  she  danced 
in  the  night,  alone,  before  her  illuminated  butsudan.  I  have 
one  of  the  figures  here,  I  will  send  Chu  up  with  it  this 
evening,  if  you  will  please  me  by  accepting  it.'' 
"^Chu7" 

"  One  of  my  little  Jap  boys." 

The  Princess  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  expressed  her 
genuine  pleasure.  Her  visitor  was,  as  she  had  said,  ^  an  extra- 
ordinary young  man,'  but  she  already  knew  him  well  enough 
to  feel  sure  that  he  said  exactly  what  he  meant  and  that  he 
wished  her  to  have  the  carved  dancer. 

She  was  feeling  curiously  alert.  Never  before  had  she 
encountered  a  being  so  unexpected. 

He  was  quite  a  young  man,  several  years  younger  than  she 
was,  and  yet  he  spoke  to  her  with  the  quiet  assurance  of  a 
grown-up  person  of  kindly  intentions  addressing  a  spoiled  child  ! 

It  was  an  amazing  experience — but  she  liked  it.  He  was 
refreshing  as  a  deep  breath  of  sea  air  on  a  sultry  day.  He 
was  audacious  in  words  but  his  manner  was  so  charming  that 
it  was  impossible  to  take  offence. 

It  was  obvious  that,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the 
words,  he  was  no  respecter  of  persons.  But  equally  obvious 
was  the  fact  that  he  could  respect,  even  reverence,  qualities. 

And  already,  deep  down  in  her  heart,  a  wish  was  throwing 
out  clinging  roots :  the  wish  that  this  man  should  learn,  and 
acknowledge,  that  she  was  not,  really,  one  of  those  for  whom 
le  monde  ou  Von  s^ennuie  sufficed. 
II 


i62  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


When,  at  last,  he  rose  to  take  leave  she  sent  for  a  wrap  of 
velvet  and  ermine  and  accompanied  him  through  the  grounds. 
There  was  a  private  gate  on  the  lower  terrace  and  she 
indicated  that  he  could  go  out  that  way. 

As  they  walked  together,  slowly  and  with  frequent  halts 
through  the  exquisite  gardens,  she  learned  something  of  his 
feeling  for  flowers.  It  seemed  impossible  for  him  to  pass  a 
rose-tree  or  a  jasmine  bush  without  stopping  to  gently  take 
away  the  dead  or  dying  blossoms,  and  she  noticed  that  the 
rose  petals  always  found  their  way  into  his  coat  pocket. 
For  some  time  she  watched  in  silence;  then  she  said  very 
quietly : 

"Are  you  going  to  make  potpourri?" 

Bering  hesitated. 
Not  with  these !  You'll  think  me  more  than  a  little 
faddy,  but  I've  an  idea  that  rose  petals  ought  to  be  decently 
buried,  when  possible.  It  seems  a  shame  that  such  lovely 
things  must  die,  but  since  that's  inevitable  I  think  they  ought 
to  go  back  to  whence  they  came — to  Mother  Earth,  I 
generally  find  my  pockets  full  of  rose-leaves  when  I  get  to 
Altieri^s  in  the  morning  and  Gigi  and  I  have  a  great  time 
burying  them.  I'm  teaching  him  wood-carving  and  he  is  just 
now  doing  a  rather  wonderful  monument  for  our  special 
Niphetos  grave !  He  has  a  vivid  imagination,  that  small  boy  : 
he  has  made  a  really  clever  design  of  a  girl's  head  bursting 
from  the  unfolding  petals  of  a  white  rose-bud.  Altieri  thinks 
me  quite  mad,  but  since  I  am  evidently  harmless  he  humours 
me!" 

Princess  Borizoff  walked  late  in  her  rose  garden  that 
evening.  Her  servants,  accustomed  to  her  caprices,  did  not 
venture  to  remind  her  that  the  ordinary  hour  for  dinner  had 
come  and  gone,  or  that  she  had  arranged  to  attend  two 
important  receptions  that  night.  When,  at  last,  she  slowly 
returned  to  the  upper  terrace  the  little  Japanese  boy,  Chu, 
was  awaiting  her.    She  took  from  his  slender  hands  the  dainty 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  163 


dancing  girl  and  marvelled  at  its  exquisite  workmanship  and 
at  the  quaint  conceit  of  the  design.  The  tiny  figure  gave  the 
impression  of  vivid  motion.  On  the  little  face  there  seemed 
the  glory  of  love. 

In  a  few  words  she  dictated  notes  which  cancelled  her 
engagements  for  the  evening,  and  she  dined  alone — in  the 
marble  loggia  of  which  Rome  had  talked  so  much  and  seen 
so  little. 

And  later  on,  in  the  restless  silence  of  night,  moonlit 
yet  sombre,  with  the  mingled  fragrance  of  jasmine  and  roses 
and  pale  white  lilies  holding  communion  with  her  senses, 
and  something — she  knew  not  what — vibrating  the  chords 
of  memory,  she  read  again  the  story  of  the  popular  idol 
who  had  given  up  fame  and  wealth  for  the  sake  of 
Love. 

And  it  seemed  to  her  very  beautiful. 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  weather  was  magnificent. 
October,  always  one  of  the  most  delicious  months  of  the 
year  at  Rome,  gave  place  to  November  and  still  the  days 
were  full  of  sunshine  and  the  nights  were  warm. 

For  Bering  the  atmosphere  of  the  Eternal  City  was 
charged  with  excitement. 

The  portrait  of  Violet  Hilliard  had  progressed — slowly  it 
must  be  admitted — but  progressed,  up  to  a  certain  day  when 
the  Comtesse  de  Brissac  had  visited  the  studio  unexpectedly 
and  found  painter  and  sitter  having  tea  together,  in  a  snug 
corner  and  unchaperoned. 

She  had  elected  to  be  horrified  and  had  made  a  little 
scene.  After  that  she  had  carried  off  her  cousin  to  Florence 
for  a  fortnight's  visit  to  some  friends. 

Bering  heard,  through  his  sister,  that  at  Florence  the 
Comtesse  had  encountered  the  elder  Miss  Hilliard — the  aunt 
with  whom  Violet  had  lived  as  a  girl,  and  that  many  things 
had  been  said  which  were  not  exactly  pleasing  to  anyone 
concerned. 

Violet  had  herself  written  him  a  little  note  in  which  she 
said — "  A  most  unholy  row,  with  Muriel  backing  the  convenances 
and  Aunt  Rachel  unveiling  them — Heaven  only  knows  when  I 
shall  be  permitted  to  go  out  alone  again  ! " 

The  little  scented  note  had  spoken  to  him  very  inti- 
mately and  he  had  felt  triumphant  as  he  drew  from  the 
envelope,  with  its  dainty  silver  seal,  a  few  rose  petals — 
fragrant  and  crimson  as  heart-blood.  They  brought  him  a 
message — poetic,  delicious. 

For  he  and  she  had  been  talking  of  red  roses  on  that 
last  afternoon,  just  before  the  arrival  of  the  Comtesse.  He 

164 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  165 


had  been  telling  her  the  story  of  The  Nightingale  and  the 
Rose''  and  she  had  found  it  wonderful.  As  he  looked  at 
the  single  petals  that  dropped  from  the  precious  letter  he 
recalled  the  scene  and  her  face  as  she  listened  while  he  spoke 
of  the  rose-tree  crowned  with  a  single  glorious  blossom, 
blood-red  and  peerless — of  breaking  dawn  and  of  pale  gold  rays 
creeping  on  and  on  until  they  gathered  around  the  spot  where 
lay  a  little  dead  bird.  The  story  of  a  love  so  wonderful  that 
it  had  willingly  given  its  heart-blood  had  held  her  in 
bondage,  and  he  had  seen  tears  in  her  eyes  as  he  quoted — 
"  You  shall  have  your  red  rose.  I  will  build  it  out  of  music 
by  moonlight  and  stain  it  with  my  own  heart's  blood.  All 
that  I  ask  of  you  in  return  is  that  you  will  be  a  true  lover, 
for  Love  is  wiser  than  Philosophy,  though  she  is  wise,  and 
mightier  than  Power,  though  he  is  mighty.  Flame-coloured 
are  his  wings  and  coloured  like  flame  is  his  body.  His  lips 
are  sweet  as  honey  and  his  breath  is  like  frankincense." 

When  he  finished  there  had  been  a  moment  of  eloquent 
silence  and  when  Bering  looked  back  he  realized  that  if  an 
interruption  had  not  come  the  barriers  would  have  been  down 
— his  fate  would  have  been  decided,  once  and  for  ever. 

And  he  found  it  impossible  to  say  whether  he  was  glad  or 
sorry  that  the  great  moment  had  been  delayed  ? 

That  Violet  liked  him,  even  very  much,  he  knew,  but  did 
she  really  love  him — as  yet?  He  had  felt  very  confident 
that  afternoon  at  the  Villa  Medici,  but  since  then  the  girl's 
constant  and  unaccountable  changes  of  mood  had  puzzled 
him.  Sometimes  she  had  been  divinely  sweet  and  bewitching : 
sometimes  she  seemed  irritable  and  restless :  once  or  twice 
she  was  almost  insolent. 

He  loved  her,  in  each  and  every  mood,  but  insolence  he 
would  not  accept — even  from  her,  and  she  had  been  made  to 
see  it.  She  had  been  made  to  realize  that  in  a  battle  of  wills 
— their  wills — but  one  result  was  possible. 

Bering  knew  he  had  the  power  to  dominate  her  but  that 
was  not  what  he  wanted.    He  wanted  her  love  and  complete 


i66  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


faith — freely  given,  and  "for  keeps.''    And  he  meant  to  have 
that  love  and  that  faith  ! 
He  knew  how  to  wait. 

But  it  was  not  alone  in  connection  with  his  love  story  that 
the  painter  found  Rome  charged  with  excitement  that 
autumn. 

His  friendship  with  Princess  Borizoff  had  progressed  by 
leaps  and  bounds  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  admit  to  himself 
that  her  companionship  was  stimulating  and  agreeable. 

For  some  reasons,  which  he  could  not  fathom,  the 
Princess  seemed  to  wish  to  make  a  little  mystery  of  her 
growing  intimacy  with  him.  It  was  not  his  habit  to  talk  to 
his  friends  of  his  friends,  but  it  had  surprised  him  to  find  that 
Madame  Borizoff  had  not  told  Mrs  Waring  of  his  visits  to  the 
villa  or  of  the  occasions  on  which  he  had  accompanied  her  to 
one  or  two  of  the  galleries. 

Since  the  Princess  had  elected  to  remain  silent  it  was  of 
course  not  his  place  to  speak — but  he  wondered. 

And  Mrs  Waring  herself  was  changed.  She  was  charming 
as  ever  but  at  times  she  seemed  preoccupied  ;  and  once, 
when  he  had  casually  mentioned  one  of  the  societies  in 
which  his  sister  was  interested,  she  had  shown  unmistakable 
irritation  and  had  made  a  half-sneering  remark  about  "  some 
people  being  too  good  to  live."  A  moment  later  she  had 
laughed  and  declared  that  the  unnatural  warmth  of  the 
weather  had  made  her  cross  as  a  bear  with  a  shot  paw!" 
The  painter  had  taken  the  cue  and  for  some  moments  they 
had  played  ball,  skilfully,  with  gay  words  ;  but  he  was,  just  at 
that  time,  seeing  a  good  deal  of  the  big  American  and  he 
knew  that  he  was  changed  quite  as  much  as  Clio  Waring. 

And  then  from  still  another  point  came  waves  of  magnetized 
atmosphere.  Doctor  Doyenbert  was  prolonging  his  stay  in 
Rome  from  day  to  day  and  he  was  in  a  particularly  difficult 
humour. 

The  portrait  of  the  Pope,  in  which  he  took  such  a  keen 
interest,  was  progressing  rapidly  and  the  painter,  by  his 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  167 


silence,  showed  that  he  was  not  entirely  dissatisfied  with  his 
work,  but  the  critic  was  not  pleased. 

He  had,  at  the  special  request  of  the  Holy  Father, 
accompanied  Bering  to  the  Vatican  on  two  occasions  and  the 
portrait  had  not  satisfied  him. 

That  the  conception  of  the  picture  was  masterly  and  the 
likeness  admirable  he  was  willing  to  concede,  but — he  was  not 
satisfied :  and  his  temper,  and  temperament,  made  the 
possibility  of  failure,  in  this  particular  case,  unendurable. 

He  had  talked  to  and  at  Daring  until  the  painter  in 
self-defence  had  reminded  him  that  he  could  not  stultify  his 
art  even  in  the  cause  of  friendship.  I  myself  like  the 
picture,"  he  had  said.  ''I  like  it  so  much  that  I  feel 
nervous — for  that  reason  only.  I  remind  myself  that  Rodin 
and  Carriere  were  both  of  opinion  that  the  spirit  of  exaltation 
generally  heralds  an  order  for  a  fresh  canvas  ! " 

Doyenbert  had  laughed  unpleasantly.  **/feel  no  exalta- 
tion," he  had  said. 

It  was  natural  that  in  Vatican  circles  the  portrait  of  the 
Holy  Father  should  be  freely  discussed  and  on  the  Duchessa 
della  Rocca's  first  "  Day  "  of  the  season  many  questions  had 
been  asked  and — discreetly  evaded. 

The  Duchessa  received  in  the  afternoon,  twice  a  month, 
quite  in  the  English  fashion,  and  from  four  to  six  her  great 
salons  were  thronged.  Princess  Borizoif,  looking  radiantly 
lovely  in  pearl  grey  velvet  and  sables,  with  a  long,  black 
ostrich  feather  wound  round  the  crown  of  her  big  picture  hat, 
had  paid  a  short  visit,  en  route  for  a  go^lter  bridge  at  the  palace 
of  one  of  her  compatriots.  She  had  looked  so  beautiful  that 
voices  had  been  hushed  at  her  entrance,  and  Clio  Waring 
who  was  helping  the  Duchessa  to  entertain,  had  marvelled 
more  than  ever  at  her  matchless  distinction. 

The  scene  was  an  exceptionally  brilliant  one  and  from 
time  to  time  specially  favoured  guests  were  taken  into  one  of 
the  smaller  salons  to  spend  a  few  minutes  in  conversation 
with  the  old  Cardinal,  v;ho  remained  apart  on  such  occasions. 


i68  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


When,  however,  the  chief  reception  room,  which  was  hung 
in  old  yellow  brocade  and  furnished  in  the  First  Empire  style 
— was  only  occupied  by  one  or  two  intimate  friends  who  had 
lingered  by  special  request — Cardinal  Santanini  came  in,  leaning 
on  Miles  Bering's  arm  and  talking  animatedly  to  Doyenbert, 
who  was  walking  at  his  other  side. 

**My  dear  friend — I  understand  the  position  perfectly. 
You  miss  something  in  this  boy's  portrait  of  the  Holy  Father, 
something  you  expected  to  find.  And  shall  I  tell  you  what 
you  miss  ?  " 

Doyenbert  looked  at  the  speaker  sharply. 
If  your  Eminence  can  ?  " 

''Oh,  yes — I  can.  You  miss,''  and  he  accompanied  the 
words  by  a  characteristic  shake  of  the  index  finger  of  his 
right  hand,  "what  dear  old  Mrs  Beresford  would  call  'that 
awfully  fascinating  Jesuit  look.'" 

Doyenbert  pulled  up  short.  He  looked  from  the  preter- 
naturally  grave  face  of  the  handsome  old  man  to  the  openly 
amused  face  of  the  painter.    Then  he  snorted. 

"  If  your  Eminence  will  deign  to  explain.  I  am  afraid  I 
am  not  acquainted  with  the  particular  '  look '  to  which  you 
refer." 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes,  you  are  well  acquainted  with  it,  I  am  sure, 
in  one  of  its  guises — for  I  am  told  that  it  does  not  always 
wear  the  same  outer  garment.  My  dear  old  friend,  who  ought 
to  know  since  she  was  a  Protestant  long  before  she  became  a 
Catholic,  has  spoken  to  me  of  at  least  three  '  awfully  fascinat- 
ing Jesuit  looks.'  It  appears  that  one  of  them  is  merely 
bland,  and  at  least  one  is  blandly  cunning,  while  one  is 
cunningly  bland  and  blandly  deceitful.  I  am  sure  there  are 
others  but  these  will  suffice  !  It  was  one  of  these  expressions 
that  you  expected  to  find  indicated  in  the  portrait  we  have 
been  discussing." 

Doyenbert  compressed  his  lips  as  though  with  difficulty 
keeping  back  some  words.  Dering  arranged  the  Cardinal's 
high-backed  chair  at  the  approved  angle  and  gently  let  the 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  169 


slender  figure,  in  sombre  black  touched  with  red,  sink  into  it. 
For  a  second  or  two  there  was  silence  and  then  the  old  man 
went  on. 

"  You  have  wished  this  portrait  to  make  an  instant  success 
and  you  are  afraid  that  it  is — too  quiet  ? 

Has  your  Eminence  heard  me  say  so  ? 

"  No.  But  I  have  seen  you  look — doubtful.  And  then, 
I  can,  I  think,  understand  your  point  of  view.  People  have 
already  shown  themselves  very  ready  to  accuse  our  young 
friend  here  of  eccentricity.  It  would  be  natural  that  you 
should  not  wish  them  to  have  the  chance  of  accusing  him  of 
the  crowning  eccentricity  of  making  the  Head  of  the  Catholic 
Church  just  a  quiet-looking  old  man  sitting  in  a  chair. 
People  will  certainly  look  for  something  sensational  in  which 
a  suspicion  of  deception  might  be  faintly  indicated :  they  will 
not — I  am  sure  this  is  your  opinion — appreciate  the  expression 
of  inception." 

Inception'?" 

The  Cardinal  nodded  as  he  glanced  up  at  the  painter.  A 
tinge  of  red  mounted  into  the  bronzed  cheeks  and  the  painter's 
eyes  gleamed.    He  was  intensely  pleased. 

Doyenbert  looked  from  one  to  the  other  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  then  again  made  the  peculiar  little  sound  which  can 
only  be  described  as  a  snort. 

"  If  your  Eminence  is  satisfied?  "  he  said  grimly. 
Entirely  satisfied — and  so  is  the  Holy  Father." 

The  critic  bowed  low  and  turned  to  address  the  Duchessa 
who  was  sitting  with  Mrs  Waring  and  Underwood  at  the  other 
side  of  the  salon.  The  Cardinal  motioned  to  the  painter  to 
sit  beside  him. 

Yes,"  he  said  softly,  "  we  are  pleased,  the  Holy  Father 
and  I.  You  will  be  very  great,  my  son  :  already  you  are 
great,  far  more  so  than  most  of  us  suspect." 

Bering  bent  his  head  reverently  over  the  transparent  hand 
resting  on  the  carved  arm  of  the  old-fashioned  chair. 

"  Your  Eminence  is  too  kind  to  me." 


170  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


There  was  a  pause  and  then  the  softly-modulated  old  voice 
went  on. 

Someone  has  told  me,  I  think  it  was  my  old  friend  the 
Doctor,  that  you  were,  as  a  student,  greatly  influenced  by  the 
works  of  Michelangelo — is  that  so  ?  Did  you  spend  much 
time  in  copying  his  masterpieces  ? 

'*Not  exactly  copying,  your  Eminence,  but  it  is  certain 
that  I  learned  more  from  Michelangelo  than  from  any 
other  man — even  Carriere.  When  I  first  visited  Rome,  about 
eight  years  ago,  I  became  so  madly  enthusiastic  over  Michel- 
angelo that  the  moment  I  got  back  to  Paris  I  got  a  big 
studio  and  set  to  work  to  get  a  series  of  models  to  assume 
the  poses  of  his  marvellous  figures.  I  worked  day  and  night, 
but  though  I  did  from  time  to  time  snatch  the  correct  poses 
I  never  once  caught  the  spirit.  I  was  in  absolute  despair 
and  I  used  to  rage  round  and  round  the  big  room,  it  was  an 
old  coach-house,  until  I  nearly  frightened  my  wretched 
models  out  of  their  senses.  They  in  turn  became  so  restless 
that  they  couldn't  keep  still  and  I  allowed  them  to  walk  about 
as  they  pleased.  And  when  they  were  perfectly  natural  and 
in  motion  I  found  myself  watching  them,  and  as  I  watched 
the  clouds  began  to  break !  Quite  unconsciously  they 
assumed  the  poses  I  had  been  looking  for,  and  as  I  watched 
and  studied  I,  also  unconsciously,  learned  how  to  entrap 
them.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  studying  Nature,  as 
Angelo  had  studied  it  and  as  Rembrandt  had  studied  it.  I 
remember  well  the  evening  the  truth  revealed  itself  to  me. 
I  was  so  excited  that  I  couldn't  contain  myself  but  dashed 
off  without  a  hat  to  Carribre's  studio  and  blurted  it  all  out." 

"  I  see.  All  that  is  very  interesting — and  very  instructive. 
But  in  the  present  case  it  has  not  been  possible  to  study 
Nature  in  that  way  ?  It  has  been  necessary  for  you  to  permit 
your  *  model '  to  sit  still  in  a  chair  ?  " 

Dering  smiled. 

"Yes !  But  then  I  have  had  a  very  able  collaborator  to 
assist  me.    Indeed  it  is  the  bare  truth  that  without  the 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  171 


advice  and  help  of  your  Eminence  I  should  never  have  made 
a  success  of  it — if  I  have  done  so.  I  have  always  had  with 
me  the  memory  of  that  evening  in  your  study  when  you  spoke 
to  me  of  your  idea  of  a  portrait  of  the  Holy  Father.  Just 
then  I  don't  think  I  quite  realized  all  you  meant,  but  it  came 
to  me,  httle  by  little.  It  was  sublime — that  idea  of  yours. 
Not  merely  a  portrait  of  a  man,  however  exalted,  but  of  the 
Head  of  the  Church  !  You  made  me  see  it  clearly,  after  I 
had  thought  a  little  and  then — your  notion  of  an  expression 
of  *  inception '? "  Bering  looked  across  the  room  and 
laughed  softly.  I  wonder  what  he  will  say  when  he  realizes 
what  you  meant — if  he  ever  does  realize  it  ? 

I  am  not  quite  sure.  He  is  too  brilliant,  too  fond  of 
analyzing  thoughts  and  beliefs,  to  easily  understand  that 
which  is  so  simple  that  a  child  might  read  it  and  yet  so  grand 
that  angels  might  be  pardoned  for  finding  it  bewildering.  We 
shall  see.'' 

The  old  man  looked  straight  into  Bering's  eyes  and  for  a 
moment  his  delicate  face,  traced  all  over  with  tiny  lines, 
seemed  as  the  face  of  a  seer :  it  seemed  as  though  his  eyes 
pierced  the  brain  of  the  painter  and  gazed  on  into  futurity. 

There  was  a  long  silence  and  then  Bianca's  voice,  luscious 
in  tone  and  distinctly  contralto,  made  itself  heard. 

Uncle  Pio — you  must  hear  this!  Boctor  Boyenbert 
does  not  consider  Velasquez  worthy  of  a  place  amongst  the 
great  colourists  !  What  have  you  to  say  to  that — you  who 
almost  adore  Velasquez  and  who  place  him,  as  a  colourist,  on 
a  line  with  Veronese  ?  " 

The  Cardinal  arched  his  white  brows. 

"This  is  an  important  matter,"  he  said;  I  think  you 
must  all  move  camp  and  come  to  my  side  of  the  room.  I  am 
not  very  polite,  I  fear,  but  my  white  hairs  must  plead  for  me — 
and  also  my  cat-hke  fancy  for  always  occupying  the  same 
corner." 

With  a  little  rustle  of  silken  linings  the  Buchessa,  with 
Clio  Waring  and  Underwood,  moved  across  the  room,  while 


172  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Doyenbert  followed,  wheeling  the  Duca's  invalid  chair.  When 
they  were  all  settled  down  the  Cardinal  opened  fire. 

Velasquez  didn't  know  how  to  put  on  colour — was  that 
what  you  said,  Doctor  ?  " 

Doyenbert — who  never  sat  when  he  could  stand — was 
leaning  on  the  back  of  the  Duca's  chair,  and  as  his  old  friend 
spoke  he  looked  up  and  grinned. 

**Not  exactly — but  it  doesn't  matter.  We  had  been 
speaking  of  Eugene  Carriere,  and  then  of  some  of  the  things 
the  fellows  here  say  of  that  young  man  on  your  left,  and  I 
ventured  to  suggest  that  before  one  discussed  colour  one 
ought  to  clearly  understand  what  colour  means — or  might 
mean.  And  then  I  cited  Las  Meninas^  in  which  the  only 
element  of  colour  is  the  black  of  the  garments  opposed  to  the 
pale  clearness  of  the  faces  and  hands.  You  may  agree  with 
me,  or  you  may  not,  but  it  is  my  opinion  that  the  beauty  of  a 
picture  does  not  lie  in  the  variety  or  the  richness  of  isolated 
tones  but  in  their  perfect  harmony  ;  and  harmony,  in  a  picture, 
depends  on  the  distribution  of  Hght  and  in  the  truth  with 
which  the  gradations  are  noted  and  set  down.  A  picture  in 
which  the  colours  resembled  patch-work  might  easily  give  a 
weaker  impression  of  colour  than  might  an  engraving  in  which 
the  values  were  absolutely  true." 

He  looked  at  Dering  as  he  spoke  and  the  painter  nodded. 

"That's  true,"  he  said.  "All  that  Carriere  retained  of 
colour  was  light  and  shade,  but  then  his  eye  was  marvellously 
sensitive  to  their  gradations  and  to  their  harmonies.  No 
one  observed  Nature  more  strictly  than  he  did,  and  no  one 
more  strictly  obeyed  her  essential  laws." 

"But  there  is  colour — brilliant,  flaring  colour,  in  the 
world  ?  " 

Mrs  Waring  spoke  eagerly  and  Doyenbert  turned  to  her 
with  the  careful  patience  of  one  addressing  a  child. 

"  Chire  Madame — that  of  course !  But  when  depicting 
Nature  on  canvas  everything  depends  on  the  knowledge  and 
understanding  of  the  artist.    For  example,  take  a  genius  such 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  173 


as  Paul  Veronese — one  of  the  greatest  *  colourists  '  the  world 
has  ever  known.  In  what  does  the  value  of  his  paintings 
consist  ?  In  the  fact  that  every  tint  has  its  own  true  value. 
The  richness  of  tone  in  his  pictures,  in  which  one  meets  with 
everything  that  is  brilliant  in  Nature,  the  radiance  of  precious 
stones,  flowers  and  sunsets,  all  these  of  course  contribute  to 
the  enchantment  of  his  work,  but  its  value  is  to  be  found  in 
the  art  with  which  the  varied  tints  are  combined,  the  harmony 
with  which  they  are  blended.  Dealt  with  by  a  less  skilful 
hand  than  that  of  Veronese,  this  crowd  of  glowing  elements 
might  easily  represent  a  tumult  of  glaring  colours  which 
threatened  to  extinguish  each  other.  You  follow  me — do 
you  not  ?  You  understand  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  in  a 
picture  of  Velasquez,  even  of  Veronese,  you  might,  if  you 
could,  efface  the  colours,  only  keeping  their  luminous  intensity, 
and  out  of  the  remaining  elements  you  would  have  a  harmony 
which,  by  reason  of  its  sensitive  charm,  would  give  again  the 
first  impression  of  the  picture.  An  attenuated  impression  it 
is  true  but  none  the  less  a  correct  one.  To  drive  my  meaning 
home  let  us  be  personal.  Bering's  method  of  expression  has 
something  abstract  about  it  in  the  sense  that  he  neglects 
colour  in  its  diverse  shades.  But  then  his  vision  is  remark- 
ably accurate  and  he  has  realized  the  primeval  fact  that 
colours  continually  change.  When  he  is  at  his  best  he  con 
structs  his  objects,  portraits  or  any  other  thing  by  means  of 
light  and  its  gradations,  guided  by  an  understanding  of  the 
immense  scale  of  values." 

"  You  admit  then  that  our  friend  here  knows  something  of 
portrait  painting  ?  " 

The  Cardinal's  whimsical  smile  called  up  a  hum  of  light 
laughter  from  the  interested  group,  but  the  critic  remained 
unmoved.    He  was  determined  to  interest  his  listeners. 

'*  *  Something  '  but  not  everything  !  To  be  a  great  portrait 
painter  you  must  be  a  deep  thinker,  and  you  must  never  be 
tempted  to  paint  only  what  the  eye  sees  at  the  first  glance. 
A  great  portrait  painter  occupies  himself,  above  all,  with  the 


174  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


explanation  of  what  he  sees.  He  insists  on  knowing  just 
what  it  is  that  determines  the  modelling,  the  hollows  and  the 
reliefs  :  the  solid  masses  and  the  bony  sub-structure.  He 
knows  that  form  without  weight  or  depth  is  only  a  lifeless 
phantom.  In  this  connection  Carrifere  said  to  me  one  day : 
*  I  have  noticed  in  Velasquez,  even  more  than  in  da  Vinci, 
that  the  features  of  the  face,  the  eyes,  the  nose  and  the  mouth, 
are  prepared  by  the  parts  which  surround  them  :  by  the  arch 
of  the  brows,  the  cheek  bones  and  the  jaws.  If  the  features 
were  not  there  one  would  divine  them.^  A  portrait,  to  be 
great,  must  be  built  up  on  a  solid  foundation !  The  artist 
must  create  the  bony  framework.  He  must  construct  the 
arch  of  the  brows,  the  cheek  bones,  the  bones  of  the  nose  and 
the  jaw.  On  this  strong  stratum,  the  home  of  character, 
slowly  built  up  by  ancestors,  he  must  spread  the  mobile 
muscles  which  are  to  come  into  play  with  each  passing 
emotion ;  the  eyelids,  the  cheeks,  the  wings  of  the  nose,  the 
lips — all  the  parts  of  the  face  which  quiver  at  the  slightest 
shock.  He  must  realize  that  the  momentary  contractions  of 
these  mobile  features  indicate  passing  emotions  while  their 
habitual  contractions  mark  out  destinies." 

"  My  dear  Doctor — but  where  are  you  going  to  find  portrait 
painters  built  on  such  heroic  lines  as  these  ?  " 

Here^  if  sentiment  and — the  softer  sex,  don't  interfere  ! 
This  fellow  has  it  in  him  to  be  great,  but  unfortunately  he  is 
Irish.    It  is  a  huge  misfortune  ! " 

Bering  laughed  heartily. 
For  a  Frenchman  you  are  strangely  lacking  in  polite- 
ness," he  said  meaningly.    "  Am  I  the  only  Irish  person  in 
this  room  ?  " 

Doyenbert  wheeled  round  and  bowed  low,  hand  on  heart, 
before  Mrs  Waring. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  ask  for  pardon.  All  the  world  knows 
that  an  Irish  woman  is  the  most  charming,  as  the  most 
puzzling  and  contradictory,  creature  in  the  world.  When  one 
speaks  of  the  misfortune  of  being  Irish  one  always  sees  male !  " 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  175 


Mrs  Waring  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a  malici- 
ous smile  and  the  Duca,  who  had  been  listening  to  the 
conversation  with  close  attention,  broke  in. 

"  Since  we  have  an  opportunity  of  hearing  you  speak  of 
the  painter's  art  I  should  be  immensely  obliged  if  you  would 
explain  one  thing  to  me.  I  am,  as  you  know,  a  great  admirer 
of  Carriere,  but  I  find  it  difficult  to  understand  why  he 
painted  so  many  pictures  in  a  sort  of  mist — everything 
indistinct? 

**My  dear  sir,  but  in  Nature  is  anything  distinct?  Do 
you  not  remember  what  Houssay  said  on  that  particular 
subject  ?  '  Nothing  is  completely  distinct.  To  fix  our  ideas 
let  us  start  from  the  atmospheric  air.  Not  alone  does  it 
surround  and  bathe  what  we  call  form,  but  it  penetrates  it,  it 
dissolves  itself  in  it  and  combines  itself  with  it.  Not  alone  is 
there  contiguity  but  there  is  continuity  of  substance  between 
the  air  and  these  forms  because  the  oxygen  incorporates  itself 
into  their  matter  and  comes  out  from  it.'  And  looking  at  the 
matter  from  still  another  point  of  view  let  me  tell  you  that  if 
you  were  to  follow  a  little  volume  of  gas  in  the  lungs,  in  the 
blood  and  in  the  organs,  you  could  not  say  with  certainty  at 
what  moment  it  ceases  to  become  air  and  is  transformed  into 
animal  tissue.  Nothing,  absolutely  nothings  in  Nature  is 
completely  distinct  from  anything  else." 

The  Duca  sat  back  in  his  chair.  He  looked  puzzled  but 
intensely  interested.  For  him,  forced  as  he  was  to  pass  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  in  bed  or  in  an  invalid  chair,  the  art  of 
the  painter,  as  the  art  of  the  poet,  possessed  a  sleepless 
interest.  His  brain  was  active  as  his  crippled  body  was,  of 
necessity,  inert,  and  his  wife,  who  adored  him,  never  missed 
an  opportunity  of  gathering  round  him  men  of  learning  and 
culture ;  when  Doyenbert  was  in  Rome  he  was  a  welcome 
guest  at  the  Palazzo  della  Rocca  for  his  unexpected  ideas  and 
shrewd  criticisms  delighted  the  Duca  and  his  long  friendship 
with  the  Cardinal  gave  him  many  privileges. 

The  quotation  from  Houssay  seemed  to  have  given  everyone 


176  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


food  for  thought.  It  was  the  American  who  at  last  broke  the 
silence. 

"  I  heard  a  man  to-day  say  a  rather  curious  thing  about 
your  water-colour  sketches.  He  said  they  recalled  Japanese 
art?" 

Bering  smiled. 
Japanese  art  expressed  by  Western  methods?  Oh,  I 
acknowledge  with  genuine  gratitude  the  debt  I  owe  to 
Japan — I  learned  a  lot  of  things  there.  The  Japs  are 
such  tremendous  admirers  of  Nature — they  understand  and 
appreciate  her  to  an  extraordinary  extent :  and  after  all,  what 
is  Art  but  a  knowledge  of  Nature  ?  We  don't  really  create 
anything :  we  carUt^  for  Nature  has  a  monopoly  of  creation ! 
I  know  little  or  nothing  of  the  art  of  literature,  but  I'm  sure 
the  same  idea  applies  to  that  art,  and  to  all  others.  The 
Greeks  simply  copied  what  they  saw,  with  a  certain  necessary 
exaggeration  of  the  character  of  the  forms,  but  then  they  put 
into  their  work  a  magnificent  sincerity." 

"You  have  some  sensible  ideas,  Dering — even  though 
you  are  a  sentimentalist.  You  are  one  of  the  very  few 
painters  of  my  acquaintance  who  have  realized  that  *  la  raison 
cubique  est  la  mattress e  des  choses  et  non  pas  Vapparence  ! ' " 

"You  certainly  have  Rodin  on  the  brain.  Doctor!  He's 
a  genius,  but  he  goes  very  far  in  his  ideas  on  the  subject  of 
the  dominion  of  geometry.  One  night  at  Meudon  I  heard 
him  flabbergast  a  whole  roomful  of  enthusiasts  by  calmly 
announcing  that  ^  les  Grecs  etaient  simplement  les  savants, 
Leur  art  c'est  de  la  gSomitrie  I '  " 

Doyenbert  rubbed  his  thin  hands  together. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  there — I  can  see  those  'enthusiasts.' 
Have  you  never  watched  the  antics  of  the  crowd  when 
confronted  by  a  genius  ?  "  The  question  was  directed  at  the 
Cardinal.  "It  is  an  entertaining  sight,  I  can  assure  you.  It 
firmly  believes  him  to  be  a  raging  lunatic,  but  something,  a 
newspaper  paragraph  or  a  criticism  which  had  scored  *an 
inner,'  makes  it  hesitate  to  openly  scoff.    That  is  to  say 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  177 


when  the  genius  is  a  responsible-looking  old  gentleman — like 
Rodin.  In  the  case  of  genius  in  the  bud,"  his  glance  at  the 
painter  was  eloquent,  "  tongues  run  amuck.  It  was  a  good 
thing  for  your  reputation,  young  man,  that  your  far-seeing 
uncle  made  you  a  fairly  good  imitation  of  a  Maitre  d' Amies, 
That  reputation  goes  a  little  way  towards  saving  the 
reputation  which  I  take  for  granted  you  hold  dear  ?  " 

Bering  had  a  funny  little  trick  of  half  closing  his  eyes 
and  emitting  a  soft  little  bird-call,  when  he  was  amused.  He 
did  so  just  then,  and  Clio  Waring  burst  out  laughing. 

^*Do  they  really  say  such  dreadful  things  about  him?" 
she  asked  gaily.  "  The  very  worst  thing  /  have  ever  heard 
said  is  that  he  professes  to  be  a  'painter  of  souls.'" 

Diable  I "  The  Doctor  forgot  the  presence  of  a  Prince 
of  the  Church  and  of  ladies  who  could  not  be  supposed  to 
appreciate  a  swear  word.  **They  have  said  that?  But 
who  ?  "  Then,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  went  on  rapidly  : 
"  Oh — I  know,  Carlo  Lucci  ?  Cest  Men  lui^  ca  I  *  A  painter 
of  souls?'  And  whose  souls?  Lucci's?  That  would  not 
eat  up  much  paint,  that  painting,  for  if  he  has  one  single  one 
it  is  the  very  most  he  can  boast,  and  that  single  soul  is  not 
very  fat." 

**But  is  it  a  reproach — the  possession  of  a  'single  soul'? 
How  many  ought  a  person  worthy  of  your  approval  to 
possess?"  The  Cardinal's  voice  was  soft  and  insinuating, 
and  for  a  moment  Doyenbert  hesitated.  Then  he  slid  on  to 
the  arm  of  the  Duca's  chair  and  balanced  himself  skilfully. 

*'  I  ought  to  demand  pardon  for  that  little  gaffe^  your 
Eminence !  Of  course,  the  eccentric  ideas  of  the  Buddhists 
have  no  place  here^  but  my  unruly  thoughts  were  making  a 
circuit,  from  Japan  to  Meudon,  via  Rome,  and  so  the  mention 
of  souls  brought  before  me  the  quaint  idea  that  the  '  Five 
Elements '  of  the  Chinese  astrological  system  have  much  to 
do  with  deciding  the  natures,  or  souls,  of  those  born  under 
their  influence.  The  gods  permit  an  individual  to  have  nine 
souls,  but  the  person  so  possessed  would  be  too  '  many- 
12 


178  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


minded ' :  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  individual  possessing 
only  a  single  soul  would  be  said  to  lack  quick  intelligence. 
You  understand  ?  Lucci  manipulates  pastels  so  cleverly  that 
he  makes  more  in  twelve  months  than  our  budding  genius 
here  is  likely  to  make  in  twelve  years,  and  yet — I  suspect  him 
of  a  single  soul.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  I  won  his  undying 
hatred — over  his  famous  *  Sleeping  Beauty'?  No?  Well, 
the  tale  is  instructive.  Some  fellows  were  telling  him  that  it 
had  made  the  shade  of  Michael  the  Angel  cover  his  face  in 
humihation  and  so  on,  and  Lucci,  with  that  delicious  upward 
glance  which  you  ladies  love  so  much,  said  it  was  *a  little 
nothing  ' :  that  the  only  difficulty  connected  with  it  had  been 
the  difficulty  of  keeping  the  model  awake — after  he  had 
discovered  that  she  looked  much  prettier  in  pretended  sleep 
than  in  the  real  thing.  He  said  he  had  placed  a  phonograph 
close  to  her  head — I  believe  the  thing  was  giving  *  Vtens 
Poupoule  'at  the  Ambassadeurs^  with  Mayol,  and  that  it  had  had 
the  desired  effect.  Most  of  the  men  seemed  to  find  the  idea 
excellent,  and  we  had  a  little  round  of  stories  about  sleeping 
beauties,  real  and  otherwise,  but  somehow  a  craze  to  show 
off  my  English  overcame  me,  and  I  asked  him  if  *  Foxing ' 
would  not  have  been  an  excellent  title  for  the  picture.  You 
know  Lucci — and  his  English  ?  He,  I  think,  suspected  me, 
but  it  was  necessary  to  say  something,  and  he  asked  young 
Tuke  to  explain.  I  used  to  think  the  boy  was  also  one  of 
the  single-souled  of  the  earth,  but  after  that  explanation  I 
granted  him  all  the  souls  the  gods  would  permit !  It  was 
superb !  So  painstaking,  so  laboured,  and — so  thorough  ! 
He  is  really  an  intelligent  fellow,  Tuke :  there  is  a  future 
before  him."  Consciously  or  unconsciously  he  had  addressed 
the  latter  part  of  his  little  speech  to  Mrs  Waring,  directly, 
and  she  felt  intensely  irritated.  She  caught  a  questioning 
glance  from  Underwood,  and  the  ever-ready  colour  flooded 
her  dainty  cheeks. 

I've  no  doubt,  but  Tm  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  you 
should  all  speak  of  Captain  Tuke  as  *a  boy  '?    It  really  seems 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


to  me  that  he^s  quite  grown  up.  As  to  Carlo  Lucci's  ^Sleep- 
ing Beauty' — it's  a  lovely  thing  and  I'm  afraid  I  shall  never 
be  clever  enough  to  understand  why  he  should  not  have  made 
his  model  look  as  pretty  as  possible.  It  isn't  everyone  who 
looks  pretty — even  presentable — when  really  asleep.  Would 
you  have  had  him  paint  the  girl  with  her  mouth  open — that's 
a  very  common  sleeping  habit  ?  " 

Dering  made  a  httle  movement  to  attract  the  Doctor's 
attention.  He  was  sincerely  attached  to  Clio  Waring  and  he 
knew  how  merciless  the  critic  could  be.  But  Doyenbert 
deliberately  turned  his  back  and  refused  to  take  the  hint. 
He  was  thoroughly  enjoying  himself.  With  an  expression  of 
child-like  innocence  he  smiled  down  into  the  indignant  brown 
eyes. 

**So  I  have  been  told — and  what  a  bad  habit.  A  snare 
and  a  temptation  for  unwary  flies.  And  how  very  right  you 
are,  Chere  Madame.  Make  your  model  pretty  and  again 
pretty  and  yet  again — pretty.  Nothing  more  is  required. 
And  as  to  the  title  of  a  picture  ?  Did  not  your  great  Shake- 
speare say — *  what's  in  a  name?'  And  I  grant  you  that 
'  Foxing '  was  not  a  poetical  suggestion,  but  we  all  have  our 
little  weaknesses  and  mine,  I  admit  it  with  bitter  sorrow,  is  a 
mania  for  accuracy  !  " 

Clio  looked  at  him  for  a  second  or  two.  Then  she  said 
impulsively  : 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  take  you  as  an  adviser  if  I  wanted 
to  make  a  name — in  this  world." 

There  was  a  vibration  in  the  musical  voice  that  caught  the 
attention  of  more  than  one  present  and  the  old  Cardinal 
raised  his  hand  in  silent  appeal.  Doyenbert  drew  himself  up 
and  his  tall  thin  figure  towered  over  his  intrepid  opponent. 
For  a  moment  or  two  he  looked  at  her  in  contemplative 
silence  ;  then  he  said  quietly  : 

You  are  a  very  loyal  friend,  Mrs  Waring,  and  such  friend- 
ship as  yours  is  a  valuable  possession — for  any  man,  but 
believe  me  I  am  right  when  I  say  that  a  name  built  up  on 


i8o  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


*  Foxing '  is  not  worth  having.  It  may  command  money — 
that  is  true,  but  what  is  money  in  comparison  with  the  fruit 
of  genius  ? 

There  was  something  solemn  in  the  usually  raucous  voice 
and  Clio  felt  suddenly  frightened.  She  turned  and  looked  at 
Bering,  who  smiled  as  he  passed  his  arm  through  that  of  the 
Doctor  and  led  him  away.  Underwood  exchanged  a  few  low 
words  with  the  Cardinal  and  then  the  three  men  took  leave  of 
their  hostess. 

Mrs  Waring  was  spending  the  evening  at  the  Palazzo  but 
even  if  that  had  not  been  the  case  the  American  felt  sure  she 
would  not  have  given  him  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her 
alone.  Since  that  afternoon  on  the  terrace  of  San  Pietro  in 
Montorio  a  gulf  seemed  to  have  opened  between  them  and  he 
had  not  the  courage  to  try  to  cross  it.  He  had  promised  to 
give  her  time  in  which  to  make  a  decision  which  must  neces- 
sarily colour  the  rest  of  their  lives,  and  he  was  trying  to  keep 
that  promise — to  the  letter.  When  the  visitors  were  gone 
both  the  Cardinal  and  the  Duca  expressed  their  intention  of 
resting  a  short  time  before  dinner  and  Clio  found  herself  in 
a  big  lounge  chair,  before  a  blazing  wood  fire,  in  Bianca's 
dressing-room.  The  oval  room  was  dainty,  but  rather  ascetic, 
with  hangings  of  Indian  silks  in  a  delicate  shade  of  blue,  and 
a  few  flowers  springing  from  tall  vases  of  green-blue  Venetian 
glass.  The  lamps  were  shaded  in  white  and  silver  and  on  the 
polished  floor  there  were  two  or  three  white  fur  rugs.  It  gave 
one  the  impression  of  a  young  girl's  room,  and  as  Bianca  della 
Rocca  leaned  forward  to  arrange  the  great  blocks  of  sweet- 
scented  pine  wood  Clio  could  not  help  thinking  that  the 
owner  of  the  room  did  not  seem  to  have  changed,  very  greatly, 
since  the  old  days  at  the  Convent  school.  The  Duchessa 
had  retained  much  of  the  fresh  manner  of  a  perfectly 
natural  girl  :  she  was  the  soul  of  goodness  and  her  life  was 
centred  in  her  home — and  its  occupants.  Beautiful  of  face 
and  distinguished  of  person — she  was  entirely  free  from 
vanity,  and  though  she  took  delight  in  the  unstinted  admira- 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  i8i 


tion  of  her  husband  and  uncle  she  cared  little,  if  anything,  for 
the  applause  of  the  outer  world. 

The  two  women  were  such  close  friends  that  they  never 
felt  the  necessity  of  making  conversation,  and  when  the 
Duchessa  spoke  she  broke  quite  a  long  silence. 

**How  wonderfully  beautiful  Gabrielle  looked  to-day?" 
she  said.  "  I  really  think  she  grows  more  and  more  lovely  and 
certainly  she  has  been  sweeter  than  ever  this  season.  Of 
course  she  has  always  been  delightful  to  me  but  she  is  difficult, 
sometimes — with  other  people  ? 

Clio  half  opened  her  dreamy  eyes  and  nodded. 

Sometimes You  deserve  a  putty  medal!  When 
have  you  known  her  anything  but.*  difficult '  ?  I  like  her  most 
awfully,  of  course,  but  she  exasperates  me  :  I  have  never 
been  able  to  forgive  her  for  the  way  she  behaved  to  Miles 
Dering — and  it  was  /  who  introduced  him,  too." 

"  But  surely  she  has  made  the  amende  honorable  ?  I 
intended  asking  you  how  you  had  managed  to  make  the  peace 
between  them?'' 

I  ?  But  there  is  no  peace.  She  was  as  nearly  rude  to 
him  as  a  well-bred  woman  could  be,  and  certainly  she  has 
made  no  amende  honorable ^ 

Bianca  sat  back  and  looked  at  her  friend  in  open  surprise. 
But  they  are  frequently  together  ?  I  myself  have  seen 
them,  at  the  Villa  Borghese,  and  Monsignor  Rossi  told 
Uncle  Pio  that  she  has  been  studying  Raphael's  Stanze  under 
his  direction.  I,  of  course,  supposed  you  knew  and  I  did  not 
mention  the  subject  because  Uncle  Pio  seemed  to  make  a 
little  mystery  about  it.  Oh — certainly  Gabrielle  and  Mr 
Dering  are  very  good  friends  now." 

CUo  sat  and  stared.    She  was  speechless  with  amazement. 
Are  you  quite  sure  1  "  she  said. 

"  Absolutely — absolutely  sure.  I  myself  was  astonished 
the  day  I  saw  them  together  at  the  Villa  Borghese.  They 
did  not  see  me,  and  uncle  who  was  with  me  drew  me 
away,  but  they  seemed  the  best  of  friends  and  were  laugh- 


i82  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


ing  and  talking  as  if  they  had  known  each  other  all  their 
lives/^ 

What  a  cat  she  is  ! 

There  was  so  much  disgust  and  indignation  in  the  voice 
that  Bianca  burst  out  laughing. 

"  But  why  ?  She  was  not  obliged  to  tell  either  of  us  that 
she  had  made  up  her  little  misunderstanding  with  Mr  Bering? 
We  are  not  girls  now,  you  must  remember.  We  can  have 
little  secrets  from  each  other  without  giving  offence." 

But  not  to  tell  me?  And  I  have  been  at  the  Villa  Bori- 
zoff  ever  so  often  lately  and  I  have  seen  Miles  Bering  every 
second  day.  And  then  she  knew  I  wanted  her  to  be  nice  to 
him!'^ 

Well,  I  assure  yoU;  she  is  nice  to  him.    I  do  not  think 
ever  remember  seeing  Gabrielle  so  *  nice  ' — if  by  nice^you 
mean  friendly  and  familiar — to  any  other  man." 
But  what  can  she  mean  by  it  ?  " 
The  Buchessa  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  into  the 
fire.    Mrs  Waring  looked  at  her  impatiently  and  repeated  the 
question. 

"  I  do  not  really  know,"  the  Buchessa's  soft  voice  had  in 
it  a  note  of  hesitation.  "  Phase  do  not  think  that  I  speak  with 
anything  like  authority,  but — I  think,  and  I  fancy  one  or  two 
other  persons  think  the  same,  that  perhaps  Gabrielle  is  serious 
— at  last.    It  really  looks  a  little  like  it." 

Serious       You  mean  that  she  may,  possibly,  be  think- 
ing of — marrying  ?    Miles  Bering  ?  " 

Bianca  made  a  gesture  of  hesitating  assent. 

Of  course  it  is  only  a  bare  possibility ;  but  Uncle  Pio  is 
very  observant  and  I  am  almost  sure  he  thinks — something." 

But  you  must  all  be  insane.  The  bare  idea  of  Miles 
Bering  *  marrying  money '  is  supremely  ridiculous  and  I  don't 
believe  he'd  ever  fall  in  love  with  Gabrielle.  She  isn't  a  bit 
the  sort  of  person  he'd  admire — really.  And  besides  I  believe 
he's  in  love  with  Violet  Hilliard — that  cousin  of  Madame  de 
Brissac's.    That  would  be  a  wretched  affair,  if  you  like,  but 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  183 


all  the  same  I  believe  he  really  likes  her  and  I  know  his  sister 
is  afraid  of  the  same  thing." 

*'But  I  think  Miss  Hilliard  is  to  marry  Prince  Platoff? 
Paolo  Prada  spoke  of  it  to  FeHpe  yesterday  evening.  He  said 
it  was  talked  of  at  the  Clubs." 

Platoff?  You  must  be  insane!  As  if  Madame  de 
Brissac  would  allow  such  a  thing.  And  as  if  PlatoiT,  after  all 
these  years,  would  actually  marry  ?  I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
it  any  more  than  I  believe  these  absurd  stories  about  Gabrielle. 
Why,  you  know  she  has  refused  half  the  best  men  in  Europe 
— Princes  and  Grand  Dukes  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  It's 
as  ridiculous  to  suppose  that  she'd  consent  to  marry  an 
unknown  painter  as  to  suppose  that  he  would  ever  ask  her." 

**Yes,  I  know  she  has  refused  a  great  many  men,  but  I 
cannot  imagine  that  she,  or  any  other  woman,  would  regard 
Mr  Bering  with  condescension.  And  then — is  he  unknown  ? 
Here  in  Rome,  in  certain  circles,  it  has  been  the  fashion  to 
call  him  eccentric  and  a  poseur^  but  there  is  no  better  judge  of 
art  in  Europe  than  Doctor  Doyenbert — and  you  know  what 
he  thinks.  And  then  Uncle  Pio  has  said  that  the  portrait  of 
the  Holy  Father  will  at  once  place  him  in  a  unique  position. 
Uncle  says  it  is  quite  marvellous :  he  considers  it  the  finest 
modern  picture  he  has  seen  and  he  is  an  excellent  judge." 

Clio  assented  absently.  She  was  much  too  surprised  and, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  displeased  to  pay  attention  to  the 
painter's  artistic  prospects.  She  knew  him  well  enough  to 
understand  his  silence  if  the  Princess  had  elected  to  make  a 
secret  of  her  acquaintance  with  him,  but — why  should  she 
wish  for  secrecy  ?  That  was  what  puzzled  the  indignant  little 
widow.  Gabrielle  Borizoff  who  had  always  boasted  of  being 
a  law  unto  herself,  who  would  certainly,  without  hesitation, 
have  invited  a  chimney-sweep  to  her  villa  if  it  had  seemed 
good  to  her  to  do  so  ?  Gabrielle,  who  ruled  her  world  and 
who  was  utterly  careless  of  what  it  might  say.  Why  this 
secrecy?  There  was  quite  a  long  silence  and  then  Mrs 
Waring  said : 


i84  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  If  what  you  say  is  really  the  case  I  suppose  Miles  Bering 
will  be  at  Gabrielle's  reception  to-morrow  night?  One  will 
have  an  opportunity  of  watching  from  afar  the  progress  of 
this  interesting — friendship." 

"  Oh,  he  is  certain  to  be  there  but,  Clio — I  do  implore  of 
you  not  to  seem  to  see  anything.  Of  course  there  may  be 
absolutely  nothing  in  the  idea  I  have  suggested  but  if  there 
should  be  ?  Just  realize  what  it  might  mean  ?  And  then  we 
all — you  in  particular — like  Mr  Bering  so  very  much  ? 

"  Yes,  I  hke  him.  I  believe  I  like  him  too  well  to  see 
with  you  in  this  affair.  Of  course  it  would  be  a  splendid  thing 
for  him  financially,  but  somehow  I  can^t  see  Miles  Bering  in 
that  light.  I  half  wish  I  could.  If  one  could  pull  him  off 
his  pedestal  things  might  be  easier — for  others  besides  himself. 
His  ideals  and  ideas  are  a  nuisance.  They  crop  up  and 
make  one  think  at  inconvenient  moments,  but — I  can't  picture 
him  without  them  and  I  don't  think  I  want  to." 


CHAPTER  XII 


"  '\ZO\J  are  treating  me  unfairly." 
X      "I  don^t  understand  you." 

*'  Oh,  yes — you  understand  very  well.  You  have  avoided 
me.  You  have  deliberately  shown  me  that  you  do  not  wish 
to  be  alone  with  me  for  a  single  moment.  Your  manner  to 
me  has  changed  completely.'' 

"  Fm  sorry  if  I've  seemed  rude.'' 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  rudeness,  it  is  a  question  of 
justice.    I  have  not  deserved  this  treatment." 

It  was  the  night  of  the  reception  given  by  Princess 
Borizoff  in  honour  of  a  cousin  of  the  Czar,  and  James  Under- 
wood was  standing  with  Mrs  Waring  in  the  circular  domed 
room  which  was  dedicated  to  the  frescoes  of  Melozzo  da  Forli 
and  to  the  Madonna  of  Cimabue.  His  face  was  stern  and  he 
would  have  seemed  forbidding  if  a  vibrating  note  had  not 
forced  its  way  into  his  voice.  He  had  been  very  patient :  he 
was  prepared  to  show  still  further  patience,  but  it  wounded 
him  deeply  to  find  that  the  woman  he  loved  distrusted  him. 
He  seemed  very  btg  and  strong  as  he  stood  by  her  side  and 
looked  down  at  her  tell-tale  face.  Love  had  lent  keenness  of 
vision  to  his  eyes  and  he  could  almost  read  her  thoughts.  He 
knew  that  she  was  no  longer  at  ease  in  his  society. 

Clio  was  that  night  in  a  strangely  unrestful  mood  :  her 
nerves  seemed  over-strained  and  her  temper  was  uncertain. 
She  was  looking  specially  attractive  in  a  wonderful  creation  in 
which  sea-green  gauzes  and  seed  pearls  and  long  crystal  fringes 
played  important  roles.  Her  hair  was  dressed  low  and  the 
loose  waves  were  controlled  by  diamond  combs  of  curious 
design ;  diamonds  gleamed  on  the  lobes  of  her  small  ears  and 
on  the  points  of  her  silvered  shoes,  but  her  creamy  throat  and 

185 


i86  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


rounded  shoulders  were  quite  bare.  A  big  bunch  of  Czar 
violets  was  thrust  into  a  scarf  of  silver  tissues  which  clung 
about  her  waist,  and  in  her  right  hand  she  carried  a  small  gauze 
fan  thickly  covered  with  emerald  paillettes.  She  looked  very 
lovely  and  very  young.    Underwood  sighed. 

"I  do  not  want  to  worry  you,"  he  went  on,  *^but  I  must 
just  say  one  thing  and  it  is  this,  you  can  trust  me.  I  have 
said  that  the  decision — you  know  what  decision  I  mean — must 
be  made  by  you,  and  at  your  own  chosen  time,  but  I  see  no 
reason  why  I  should  meantime  be  deprived  of  your  com- 
panionship. We  can  surely  be  good  friends — always?  No 
matter  what  may  happen  ?  " 

Of  course  !  And  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  ?  I  am 
just  the  same  as  I  always  was.*' 

He  shook  his  head.  Clio  shrugged  her  white  shoulders 
impatiently. 

"Oh,  please  don't  be  so  serious.  I  am  perfectly  sick  of 
serious  people.  Life  isn't  worth  living  when  everyone  wants 
you  to  have  a  mission  or  to  wear  a  long  face  or  to  think  twice 
before  you  laugh  once." 

"  A  propos  of  what  ?  " 

The  tone  was  calmly  inquiring  but  the  smile  wholly  whim- 
sical and  the  dimples  peeped  out  on  Clio's  cheeks. 

Oh — I  don't  know — lots  of  things.  I  believe  the  world, 
our  little  world  here,  is  becoming  too  Miles  Deringish !  I 
seem  to  hear  an  echo  of  his  ideas  on  all  sides  ! " 

"  Yes.  The  fellow  has  an  extraordinary  way  of  influencing 
people.  Even  here  the  echo  of  which  you  speak  makes  itself 
heard.  His  *  Russia '  has  been  placed  in  a  position  of  great 
honour  ? " 

"Yes!  And  the  man  who  painted  it  too!  He  is  far 
more  at  home  here  than  I  am.  It's  a  mercy  that  Gabrielle 
has  been  obliged  to  devote  herself  to  the  Grand  Duke,  other- 
wise she  would  certainly  have  kept  our  oppressively  good 
young  man  by  her  side  all  the  evening." 

"  You  speak  bitterly  ?  " 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  i 

"  Not  at  all,  but  I  do  not  like  unnecessary  mysteries 


o 


00 


«^  2       <u  o  ^  'a  /-v3 


O  eg 


£5g 


«3  2 


I        -  t§    -p  fa  r :  §  g  ^1  °| ,  ^gf I . 


^  o  --^   o   o         S         .     fesa  o 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  187 


"  Not  at  all,  but  I  do  not  like  unnecessary  mysteries. 
If  Gabrielle  wanted  to  make  a  tame  cat  of  him  she  was 
free  to  do  so — quite  openly.  Why  should  she  have  made  all 
this  mystery  ?  If  I  had  not  chanced  to  hear  of  her  intimacy 
with  him  from  Bianca  della  Rocca,  yesterday  afternoon,  I 
should  have  been  struck  dumb  with  amazement  on  seeing  him 
here  to-night." 

Underwood  laughed. 

"  I  cannot  see  Bering  in  the  character  of  tame  cat  though 
it  is  certain  that  he  and  the  Princess  are  on  the  best  of  terms. 
But  then — why  should  you  be  offended  about  it  ?  I  take  it 
that  you  have  not  always  confided  all  your  affairs  to  the 
Princess?  Have  you  not  permitted  yourself  certain  little 
reservations  ? 

Of  course — but  that's  quite  a  different  matter.'' 

"  We  are  rather  apt  to  see  things  like  that,  but  I  am  afraid 
that  facts  remain  facts  and  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  *  what's 
sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the  gander ' — too." 

Kindly  point  out  the  *  goose '  and  the  *  gander '  in  this 
case?  " 

Before  he  could  reply  the  Duchessa  della  Rocca  entered  the 
room  with  Bering  and  a  little  group  of  four  was  quickly  formed. 

The  Buchessa  was  looking  very  handsome  and  stately. 
She  was  dressed  in  rich  black  satin  and  the  make  of  the  dress 
was  neither  fashionable  nor  unfashionable — it  was  exceedingly 
simple  and  picturesque.  When  looking  at  the  tall,  graceful 
figure  Clio  Waring  was  suddenly  reminded  of  the  old 
Cardinal's  description  of  his  niece — **she  has  many  of  the 
qualities  of  a  royal  woman."  The  soft  folds  of  the  flowing 
dress  moulded  the  splendid  form  without  undue  display  of 
outline,  and  of  trimming  there  was  none.  Some  cob-web  lace, 
yellow  with  age,  showed  itself  on  the  corsage,  and  a  magni- 
ficent Louis  XV.  bow  of  diamonds  caught  it  down  at  the 
breast :  in  the  dark  hair,  simply  dressed  and  lying  close  to  the 
finely-shaped  head,  there  was  a  diamond  tiara  in  a  design  of 
interlaced  myrtle  branches. 


i88  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


As  she  entered  the  circular  room  the  Duchessa  was 
laughing  softly  at  something  the  painter  had  said  and  after 
exchanging  greetings  with  Mrs  Waring  she  returned  to  the 
subject. 

"  You  will  have  to  go !  There  will  be  no  chance  of 
escape."  Dering  laughed  and  nodded  his  head  in  mock 
assent.    Clio  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Where?" 

"  To  Russia.'' 

"What  for?" 

"To  paint  Grand  Dukes  and  the  families  of  Grand  Dukes 
— even  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation.'^ 
"  Who  has  arranged  this  ?  " 

"Our  very  special  Grand  Duke  who  is  at  this  moment 
giving  Lady  Garston  his  opinion  on  the  magnetic  power  of 
her  eyes,  in  the  loggia  ! '' 

"And  you  are  going?  " 

"  Tr^s  chlre  Madame — did  you  not  hear  the  decision  of 
the  Duchessa?" 

"  You're  coming  on  !  " 

There  was  something  so  cheeky — no  other  word  would 
express  it — about  the  tone  in  which  Clio  spoke  that  they  all 
laughed.  She  herself  joined  in  for  a  second  or  two  ;  then  she 
moved  to  Dering's  side  and  spoke  to  him,  a  little  apart. 

"  Have  you  really  come  to  see  the  error  of  your  ways — at 
last?  Has  Madame  Borizoff  been  able  to  convince  you  that 
Art  for  Art's  sake  is  beautiful  in  theory  and — in  practice  likely 
to  lead  in  the  out-door-relief-needed  direction  ?  " 

"  But  why  should  you  divorce  Art  for  Art's  sake  from  the 
world  of  Grand  Dukes  ?  " 

I  ?  But  /  have  never  divorced  such  things  or  people  at 
all.  It  was  you  who  have  always  insisted  on  doing  that." 
He  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"  Never  ! " 

"But  when  I  spoke  to  you  about  doing  a  portrait  of 
Gabrielle  Borizoff  ?  "    She  stopped  short  and  looked  at  him 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  189 


sharply.  But  perhaps  that  has  also  been  arranged — with  all 
these  other  wonderful  things  ?  " 

Again  he  shook  his  head  and  the  expression  of  mock 
solemnity  gave  place  to  an  expression  of  whimsical  amuse- 
ment. 

"No!" 

The  Duchessa  moved  across  the  room  with  Underwood 
and  Clio  sank  into  a  chair  which  had  been  placed  under 
the  shadow  of  a  superb  palm.  She  motioned  to  Bering  to 
sit  near  her. 

"Look  here,"  she  said  determinedly,  "IVe  always  liked 
you  and  Tve  always  wanted  things  to  march  well  for  you. 
You  know  that — don't  you?  Well,  I  don't  mind  saying 
that  lately  I  haven't  understood  you — a  little  bit.  It  isn't 
like  you  to  be  deceitful  and  underhand." 

"  But  have  I  been  ?  " 

"Of  course  you  have — and  you  know  it." 

"  Please  M'am — ^just  as  how  ?  " 

Clio  would  not  laugh.  She  drew  herself  up  stiffly  and 
glanced  round  the  room  and  towards  the  open  doors  which 
led  into  the  larger  galleries.    Bering's  eyes  followed. 

"  The  Villa  Borizoff  ?  "  he  said  musingly. 

"Just  that !    And  other  things  too." 

"What  other  things?" 

"Oh — your  portrait  of  the  Pope  and  your  new  ideas 
on  the  subject  of  love  and — lots  of  other  things."  Bering 
laughed  softly  but  with  complete  satisfaction. 

"You  are  delicious!  And  the  portrait  of  the  second 
sweetest  old  man  in  Rome  is  not  finished !  And  of  course 
you'll  be  invited  to  the  *  private  view.'  And  who  said  I 
had  acquired  'new  ideas'  on  the  important  subject?  And, 
by  the  way,  aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  about  your 
treatment  of  the  small  boy  of  the  fatal  arrows  ?  Poor  Tuke, 
he  is  inside  there,  wandering  round  and  round  and  refusing 
to  be  comforted." 

"To  turn  the  subject  may  be  convenient  but  it's  a  banal 


igo  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


method.  Of  course  I  can't  force  your  confidence — I  wouldn't 
if  I  could — but  I  assure  you  I  have  heard  things." 

"So  have  I." 

Clio  looked  up  quickly. 

'^What?" 

"  Whispers  of  meetings  which  have  been  and  are  not.  And 
of  possibilities  which,  unhappily,  are  not  probabihties  and 
of  hopes  and  fears,  and — I  wish  I  could  help  and  I  can't ! 
When  one  likes  a  person — persons — very  much,  one  wishes 
so  much  to  have  the  power  to  strew  the  path  with  roses 
and  the  right  to — throw  slippers ;  difficulties  that  seem 
insurmountable  are  detestable."  He  spoke  with  meaning 
and  a  faint  flush  rose  to  Clio's  face.  She  looked  down  a 
moment :  then  she  threw  back  her  head  impatiently. 

*'Just  before  you  and  Bianca  came  in  I  was  saying  to 
Mr  Underwood  that  I  am  sick  to  death  of  serious  people — 
and  it's  true.  Life  is  too  short  for  all  this  seriousness. 
One  must  live  for  the  day  for  no  one  can  tell  what  the 
morrow  may  bring." 

She  got  up  suddenly  and  with  Bering  at  her  side  passed 
out  of  the  quiet  galleries  and  on,  into  the  brilliant  reception- 
rooms  with  the  walls  of  gleaming  gold  and  the  gorgeous 
ceilings  of  carved  wood  overlaid  with  gold  and  silver  and 
inset  with  tortoise-shell. 

The  Princess  disliked  the  great  rooms  because  of  their 
almost  barbaric  splendour  but  she  used  them  when  she 
received :  they  were  well  arranged  and  spacious  and  at 
the  end  of  the  suite  there  was  a  music-room  which  famous 
artists  had  pronounced  perfect. 

In  this  room  the  subdued  light  of  countless  wax  candles 
shed  a  soft  radiance  on  walls  hung  with  rose-pink  brocade 
and  panels  of  carved  ebony.  At  one  end  there  was  an 
Erard  concert-grand  and  round  the  walls  many  low  seats 
of  ebony  and  pale  rose  satin.  Tall  lilies,  in  high  vases  of 
carved  ivory,  stood  near  the  open  fire-place,  and  on  the 
dark  floor  there  were  Eastern  prayer-rugs  of  great  value. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  191 


As  Mrs  Waring  and  Bering  approached  the  music-room 
someone  played  the  opening  notes  of  "  Chopin's  Troisieme 
Ballade,"  and,  with  finger  on  lips,  Clio  noiselessly  slipped 
into  a  chair  just  inside  the  door. 

The  greatest  pianist  of  modern  days  was  playing  at 
the  special  request  of  the  guest  of  the  evening — the  cousin 
of  the  Czar. 

As  the  delicious  notes  rose  and  fell  under  the  magic 
touch  of  the  enchanter  Clio  leaned  back  against  the  satin 
cushions  of  her  chair  and  gave  rein  to  her  thoughts. 

Here,  in  the  midst  of  subtle  luxury,  where  the  desire 
of  the  eye  was  elevated  to  a  shrine,  where  the  fragrance 
of  hot-house  flowers  robbed  the  senses  of  all  power  save 
the  power  to  enjoy,  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  serious 
things  :  even  to  remember  that  they  existed. 

Yes !  What  she  had  just  said  to  the  man  standing  by 
her  side  was  true.  The  only  sensible  thing  to  do  is  to 
live  for  the  hour,  for  the  day.  Life  is  very  short,  a  woman's 
life.  Very  much  has  to  be  got  into  a  pitifully  short  space 
of  time — if  existence  is  to  be  made  worth  while. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  round  defiantly.  She 
was  free.  No  one  had  the  right,  now,  to  dictate  to  her. 
And  the  one  who  had  had  that  right — the  dear  old  father 
who  had  died  not  long  after  her  marriage — well,  his  views 
were  lovely  but  hopelessly  out  of  date.  He  had  lived  out 
of  the  world  so  long  that  he  had  forgotten  its  ways — and 
needs. 

Her  face  glowed  with  excitement  and  her  restless  eyes 
were  very  brilliant  as  she  let  them  wander  over  the  occupants 
of  the  famous  music-room. 

The  scene  was  a  remarkable  one. 

All  the  most  notable  members  of  that  cosmopolitan 
circle  known  as  society "  were  gathered  together  at  the 
Villa  Borizoff  that  night.  Diplomatists,  ministers,  lovely 
women  of  Russian,  French,  English  and  Italian  birth : 
semi-royal  personages  of  both  sexes. 


192  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


The  toilettes  were  marvellous  and  the  display  of  jewels 
dazzling,  but  no  woman  present  rivalled  the  mistress  of  the 
house — who  was  sitting,  with  her  royal  guest,  near  the  piano. 

Clio  knew  her  friend's  face  very  well  indeed.  She  had 
often  studied  it  and  had,  not  infrequently,  felt  irritated 
when  she  realized  its  exceeding  beauty,  but  she  had  never 
seen  Gabrielle  Borizoff  look  as  she  looked  then. 

There  was  something  unexpected  about  her.  Some 
change  of  expression  ?    Or  was  it  of  manner  ? 

It  was  impossible  to  say  in  what  the  subtle  change 
consisted  but  it  was  present. 

Clio's  keen  eyes  wandered  slowly  over  the  marvels  of 
the  clinging  robe  of  creamy  satin,  laden  with  embroideries 
of  pale  silver  and  mother-of-pearl.  The  folded  laces  on 
the  quaintly  simple  bodice  showed  yellow  against  the  mat 
whiteness  of  the  flawless  skin  and  great  ropes  of  pearls  fell 
low  over  lace  and  satin. 

No  single  touch  of  colour  marred  the  purity  of  that 
delicious  melange  of  ivory  and  cream  but  amongst  the 
laces  of  the  bodice  there  was  a  cluster  of  pure  white  roses 
framed  in  dark  leaves. 

Gabrielle's  eyes  encountered  those  of  her  friend  just 
as  the  famous  musician's  fingers  kissed  the  trembling  notes 
for  the  last  time  and  she  smiled. 

Then,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Clio,  the  dark  eyes  wandered 
upwards  and  remained  stationary — for  a  single  moment. 
And  in  that  moment  the  watching  woman  felt  as  if  she 
had  seen  the  face  of  an  angel. 

The  Grand  Duke  claimed  the  attention  of  his  hostess 
and  at  the  same  moment  some  one  stood  before  Clio  and 
bowed  low. 

Enchante  de  vous  voir,  Madame!  Is  it  permitted 
to  offer  respectful  felicitations  ?  Your  wonderful  robe 
recalls  the  mysteries  of  fathomless  seas !  It  would  be 
impossible  for  a  mermaid,  however  enchanting,  to  clothe 
herself  in  a  more  ravishing  harmony  of  green  !  " 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


It  was  Prince  Platofif.  And  at  the  sound  of  his  soft, 
insolent  voice  Mrs  Waring  glanced  up  at  the  painter. 

Bering  was  leaning  lazily  against  the  wall  close  to 
her  chair  and  as  she  looked  at  him  she  saw  his  eyes 
resting  quietly  on  the  face  of  the  Russian.  There  was  no 
sign  of  recognition,  on  either  side,  but  notwithstanding  his 
diplomatic  training  PlatofF  showed  that  he  was  conscious 
of  the  painter's  calm  inspection. 

Mrs  Waring  made  some  careless  remark  about  the 
interest  taken  by  the  Grand  Duke  in  the  Chopin  Ballade 
and  Platoff  laughed  softly. 

"  He  is  marvellous — our  dear  Puff-Puff !  He  knows 
nothing  of  music,  cares  nothing  for  it — unless  the  Valse 
Lente  of  the  Paris  Cafes  be  permitted  to  come  under  that 
heading — but  he  is  an  excellent  actor.  And  then  he  is 
quite  sincerely  interested  in  our  mutual  friend  and  hostess. 
It  is  even  rumoured  in  Petersburg,  so  I  have  been  informed, 
that  for  her  sake  he  would  be  willing  to  desert,  for  a  time 
at  least,  the  beloved  puff-puff  which  always  takes  him  in 
the  direction  of  Paris  and — settle  down  !  You  call  it  that, 
fCest-ce-pas  Madame  ?  *  Settle  down ! '  The  expression  is 
so  comfortable.    So  suggestive  of  the  brooding  hen." 

Clio  smiled  vaguely  and  rose  from  her  seat.  For  a 
moment  or  two  she  stood  and  watched  the  gay  crowd 
streaming  out  of  the  music-room.  Then  she  signed  to 
Dering  that  she  wished  to  join  some  friends  and,  with  a 
careless  salutation,  left  the  Russian  standing  alone.  He 
looked  after  her  with  appraising  eyes  and  as  he  noted 
the  slight,  but  quite  un-English,  movement  of  the  hips, 
as  she  walked,  he  recalled  the  fact  that  many  of  the  southern 
Irish  have  Spanish  ancestors. 

And  then  his  thoughts  passed  on  to  the  tall  man  at  her 
side.  He  hated  Dering  but  he  was  not  entirely  unworthy 
to  carry  the  toga  of  Petronius  Arbiter.  He  was  a  judge 
of  men — physically,  just  as  he  was  a  judge  of  women,  and 
if  he  had  been  in  the  humour  for  blunt  truth-telling  he 
13 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


would  unhesitatingly  have  declared  that  he  himself  and 
the  painter  were  the  two  most  distinguished-looking  men 
at  the  Villa  Borizoff  that  night. 

It  was  an  hour  later.  The  cousin  of  the  Czar,  with 
fervid  expressions  of  regret  and  of  anticipation,  had  made 
his  adieux,  A  number  of  the  guests  had  passed  on  to 
a  ball  at  the  Palazzo  Barberini,  but  the  bridge  tables  in 
the  card-room  were  still  crowded :  many  of  the  younger 
members  of  the  party  were  sitting  on  the  upper  terrace. 

Princess  Borizoff,  superlatively  admirable  as  a  hostess, 
understood  how  to  make  her  guests  feel  at  home  in  her 
house.  She  was  with  them  when  her  presence  was  necessary 
for  their  pleasure  but  she  did  not  worry  about  them.  Her 
entertainments  large  and  small  were  perfectly  organized 
and  always  successful. 

She  was  feeling  strangely  exalted — had  felt  so  all  that 
day.  Why,  she  hardly  knew,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  experiencing  the  bien-etre  of  morphia  worshippers. 
Her  world  seemed  bathed  in  golden  light  and  she  felt 
herself  drifting  on  and  on,  with  no  other  rudder  than 
instinct.  She  had  experienced  many  emotions,  had  ridiculed 
the  emotions  of  others,  but — this  sensation  of  drifting  towards 
some  object,  desirable  above  all  other  things?  This  emotion 
that  made  her  tremble,  at  times :  that  made  her  pulses 
throb  :  that  made  her  cheeks  flush  as  those  of  a  girl  ?  What 
was  it?    Was  it  possible  that  it  could  be  Love? 

She  was  a  woman  who  liked  to  analyse  sensations — even 
her  own,  and  there  had  been  moments  in  the  past  weeks 
when  she  had  questioned  herself,  half  seriously :  when  she 
had  mocked  at  her  own  feelings.  She  had  realized,  almost 
from  the  first,  that  Miles  Bering's  society  was  very  agreeable 
to  her :  that  in  his  presence  she  felt  stimulated  and  fully 
awake  to  the  possibilities  of  life.  She  did  not  hide  from 
herself  the  fact  that  she  had  taken  pains  to  attract  him : 
that  she  had  taken  infinite  trouble  to  bring  about  constant 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  195 


meetings  which  had  the  appearance  of  being  unexpected. 
For  the  sake  of  being  with  him  she  had  brushed  aside 
the  imperious  indifference  with  which  she  habitually  treated 
her  fellows;  she  had,  for  once,  permitted  herself  to  be 
a  woman  impelled  by  emotion. 

She  had  never  been  denied  anything.  She  had  had 
but  to  wish  and — to  obtain.  And  now?  She  wished  for 
the  constant  society  of  a  man,  but  the  realization  of  that 
wish  might  cost  her  very  much? 

It  might  cost  her  her  liberty  for  she  knew — her  in- 
telligence was  too  alert  to  permit  of  mistake — that  it  would 
not  be  possible  for  any  woman  to  dominate  the  painter. 

And  was  she  prepared  to  pay  the  price  ? 

Many  times  that  day  she  had  asked  herself  the  question 
and  each  time  she  had  evaded  the  answer. 

Then,  in  the  reckless  spirit  of  ancestors  who  had, 
very  many  of  them,  been  notable  gamblers,  she  determined 
to  leave  it  to  chance ! 

And  at  midnight  on  the  evening  of  her  reception  she 
was  standing  with  Miles  Bering  in  the  loggia  which  was 
her  favourite  sanctum. 

The  moon  was  shining  softly.  A  heavy  mist  hung 
over  the  great  city  like  a  menacing  cloud  and  the  still  air 
was  impregnated  with  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

The  loggia,  with  its  floor  of  pink  marble  and  its  three 
walls — one  end  was  open — of  purest  white,  looked  supremely 
attractive. 

Climbing  roses  twined  themselves  about  the  carved 
pillars  and  the  pale  gold  of  shaded  lamps  touched  into 
life  the  rippling  waters  of  the  fountains  at  the  further  end. 
Giant  palms  stood  here  and  there  in  square  pots  of  white 
porcelain.  Directly  in  front  of  the  open-air  salon  there 
was  a  small  terrace  and  from  this  terrace  a  flight  of  white 
marble  steps  led  down  into  the  rose  garden. 

They  had  been  talking  of  the  happenings  of  the  evening : 
of  the  Grand  Duke's  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  the  painter's 


196  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Russia,"  of  the  Duchessa  della  Rocca's  beauty  and  charm, 
and — this  more  particularly  —  of  Clio  Waring  and  Mr 
Underwood. 

Bering  spoke  with  considerable  reserve  but  the  Princess 
did  not  hesitate  to  express  regret  that  anything  should 
interfere  with  the  happiness  of  her  friend. 

Of  course  there  would  be  great  difficulties,"  she  said. 
"  The  Church  will  not  accept  divorce,  but  it  really  does  seem  a 
pity.  Certain  she  likes  him  very  much."  She  stopped  short 
and  let  her  dark  eyes  wander  out  over  the  roses  on  the 
terrace.  It  t's  a  pity  that  there  should  so  often  be  that 
tiresome  crumpled  leaf  to  upset  things.  It  seems  pre- 
ordained. *  Then  I  saw  that  the  rose  was  fair,  and  the 
mystical  rose  afar  :  A  glimmering  shadow  of  light,  paled  to 
a  star  in  the  night :  And  the  angel  whispered  ^'  Beware  ! " 
Love  is  a  wandering  star.' " 

Bering  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 
How  does  it  happen  that  you  know  Arthur  Symons  so 
well  ?    You  seem  to  read  everything  ! '' 

Oh — I  do  not  know  him  well  at  all  but  I  Hke  very  much 
his  little  volume  entitled  Lyrics — the  little  book  with  Paul 
Verlaine's  *  Fountain  Court '  on  the  front  page."  Again  she 
paused  and,  leaning  lightly  against  one  of  the  massive  marble 
columns,  she  looked  up  at  him  musingly.  **I  wonder  if  Love 
really  is  *a  wandering  star'  ?  Something  very  beautiful  and 
aloof  and — uncertain  ?  " 

He  smiled. 

"  I'm  sure  it's  nothing  of  the  kind." 

*'You  are  convinced  that  it  is  a  fixed  star?    Always  to  be 
found  in  the  same  place — year  in  and  year  out?" 
Absolutely  convinced." 

She  looked  at  him — this  time  very  seiiously. 

"Bo  you  know,  I  think  there  is  something  terrible  about 
your  ideas — some  of  them.  You  seem  to  leave  no  margin  for 
small  weaknesses  of  the  flesh,  and — after  all,  we  cannot  hope 
to  be  perfect,  we  poor  victims  of  modern  civilization  ?  It 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  197 


seems  to  me  that  you  have  all  the  primeval  instincts.  You  do 
not  recognize  the  necessity  for  compromise  ? 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  follow  you.  You  asked  if  I 
thought  Love  was  something  ^ aloof  and  uncertain'  and  I 
answered  no.    Is  that  what  you  call  *  primeval '  ?  " 

Not  exactly.  It  is  difficult  to  explain  just  what  I  mean, 
but  I  cannot  believe  that  Love  is  quite  so  simple  and  easily 
understood  as  you  seem  to  imagine.'' 

The  painter  laughed  softly. 

''^I  think  it's  just  as  simple  and  easily  understood  as — 
Nature  !  And  just  as  complex  and  involved  and  difficult  to 
grasp  as — Nature  !  Because  Love  is  Nature — the  heart  of 
Nature.  You  don't  understand  me,  and  I  don't  understand 
you,  because  we  don't  give  the  same  meanings  to  the  same 
words.  You  are  accustomed  to  hearing  all  sorts  of  things 
designated  *  love ' :  that  which  we  want,  that  which  excites 
us,  that  which  irritates  us,  that  which  eludes  us,  that  which 
dominates  us,  and  so  on  and  so  on.  The  moment  a  man  or 
a  woman  is  interested  in  anyone  he,  or  she — nine  times  in  ten 
— imagines  he,  or  she,  is  *  in  love ' !  Now  there's  no  more 
absurd  phrase  in  the  whole  English  language  than  that  '  in 
love.'    You  love — or  you  do  not  love." 

"  You  think  that  '  love  is  the  heart  of  Nature  '  ?  " 

She  spoke  dreamily  as  if  her  thoughts  were  far  away,  but 
a  subtle  vibration  in  the  musical  voice  made  Bering  look  at 
her  sharply. 

He  was  a  man  of  keen  intuition  and  many  times,  since  he 
had  come  to  know  her  well,  she  had  puzzled  him.  He  was  of 
all  men  the  least  vain  but  he  was  beginning  to  ask  himself  the 
meaning  of  these  discussions  on  the  subject  of  the  little 
winged  god. 

It  was  certain  that  she  must  have  some  reason  for  so 
frequently  leading  the  conversation  into  this  path  and  what 
was  that  reason  ? 

On  the  other  hand  the  Princess  stood  apart.  She  was  an 
imperious  coquette  in  the  sense  that  she  had  broken  many 


198  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


hearts,  but  it  was  impossible  to  think  of  her  in  connection 
with  an  ordinary  flirtation.  With  him  she  had  been  frank 
and  open  as  a  man  friend  might  have  been,  but  the  fact 
remained  that  there  was  something  in  her  manner,  perhaps  in 
her  voice,  that  sometimes  made  him  uneasy. 

"  You  speak  of  Nature  as  you  might  speak  of  a  god,  but  I 
wonder  if  you  realize  that  it  does  not  speak  to  any  two  of  us 
in  the  same  voice  ?  What  might  seem  natural  to  me  might — 
probably  would — seem  highly  unnatural  to  you  !  I  wish — 1 
wish  it  very  much  that  I  could  really  understand  you  ? 

"  You  are  thinking  of  some  special  point  on  which  you 
imagine  we  should  fail  to  agree — isn't  that  so  ? 

She  smiled  mysteriously  and  looked  down  at  the  roses  at 
her  breast. 

Perhaps.^' 

Again  he  looked  at  her  closely.  Something  seemed  to 
whisper  that  there  was  danger  ahead.  He  felt  tempted  to 
make  a  laughing  remark  that  would  lead  the  conversation  into 
ordinary  channels  but  then  the  absurdity  of  his  vague  fears 
struck  him  and  he  felt  disgusted  to  realize  that  he  was 
assuming  the  role  of  a  professional  charmer  of  women. 

With  some  warmth  he  said  : 

"  Will  you  not  explain  ?    I  should  very  much  like  to  learn 
the  nature  of  that  special  point  ?  " 
"Yes?" 

She  raised  her  dark  eyes  for  a  moment.  There  was  in 
her  face  something  of  hesitation — of  exaltation. 

There  was  silence.  Then  she  went  on,  speaking  softly 
and  as  if,  almost,  to  herself. 

**You  are  very  big  and  strong.  Your  ideas  are  strong, 
and  your  instincts  are,  I  think — primeval.  You  hold  firmly 
the  view  that  action  is  for  men  and  patient  submission  for 
women  !  Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  think  you  are  right  in 
theory,  but — sometimes  in  practice — it  is  difficult.  There 
are  exceptional  cases.  If  you  really  believe  that  love  is  the 
heart  of  Nature,  you  might,  perhaps,  find  it  possible  to 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


understand  Nature  revealed  to  you  in  an  unexpected  light  ? 
You  are  so  certain  that  the  man  should  be  the  leader  always, 
that  I  think — I  feel  almost  sure,  you  do  not  realize  that  there 
may  be  moments  in  which  a  woman  might  have  to  assert 
herself — or  take  the  chance  of  losing  something  she  valued — 
perhaps  very  much.  Yes," — she  answered  an  unconscious 
movement  rather  than  a  spoken  word — "  I  am  thinking  of  a 
special  woman  and  a  special  man.  The  woman  is  rich  in 
things  the  world  considers  of  value,  and  there  are  reasons 
which  might  make  the  man  hesitate  to  speak.  And  so — the 
woman  thinks  she  has  the  right  to  lead — a  few  steps." 

She  looked  like  a  beautiful  statue,  with  the  white  light  of 
a  southern  moon  streaming  down  on  her  marvellous  skin  and 
gleaming  satins.  Her  face  was  turned  away  and  she  was 
looking  out  into  the  mysterious  shadows  of  midnight. 

Bering  held  his  breath.    Her  meaning  was  unmistakable. 

If  she  had  been  an  ordinary  woman  it  would  have  been 
easy  to  turn  aside  the  subject.  It  would  have  been  easy  to 
feign  blindness. 

But  she  was  not  ordinary. 

For  an  instant  he  remained  silent.  Then  he  said,  very 
quietly : 

'*I  quite  agree  with  you.  There  are  exceptional  cases, 
and  Love — real  Love,  has  the  right  to  make  laws  for  itself. 
But  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  it  would  be  a  cruel  thing  for  a 
woman  to  have  to  speak — as  you  suggest.  I  suppose  my 
instincts  really  are  *  primeval ' !  And  then  my  own  love 
story  is  arranging  itself  so  naturally  that  I  cannot,  perhaps, 
realize  the  difficulties  that  might  present  themselves  to  others.'' 

"Your  own — love  story?'' 

There  was  amazement  in  the  tone  and  something  of 
imperious  indignation. 

Yes,  I  love  Miss  Hilliard.  I  hope  one  day  to  make  her 
my  wife," 

He  glanced  at  her  quite  naturally,  but  his  eyes  quickly 
returned  to  the  garden. 


200  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"You  love  her — that  girl  who  is  here  with  Madame  de 
Brissac  ?  " 

"More  than  my  life."  The  words  were  spoken  warmly, 
for  a  flame  of  indignation  was  set  alight  in  his  heart  by  her 
obviously  slighting  tone. 

Again  there  was  a  moment  of  silence.  She  looked  at  him 
intently.    Her  face  had  grown  very  white. 

"You  were  thinking  of  her  the  other  day — when  we  spoke 
of  your  passion  for  white  roses?  When  you  said  they 
reminded  you  of  some  one  you  loved?  " 

"Yes." 

The  Princess  laughed. 

And  as  he  heard  the  mocking  sound  Bering  felt  his 
colour  rising.  He  knew  the  point  of  the  mockery  was  turned 
inward. 

He  felt  strangely  ill  at  ease.  To  cover  his  confusion,  he 
leaned  forward  and  looked  into  the  shadows  of  the  rose 
garden. 

"  1  think  I  see  Mrs  Waring  and  Underwood — down 
below.    Shall  I  go  and  tell  them  you  are  here  ?  " 

"Yes — go.  Tell  them  what  you  please,  but  I  shall  not 
be  here  when  they  come  up." 

He  bowed  and  turned  quickly  away. 

Then  she  spoke  his  name. 

She  was  standing  erect,  with  her  beautiful  head  thrown 
back.  The  training  of  a  lifetime  had  asserted  itself.  She 
was  quite  calm. 

With  an  imperious  gesture  she  drew  the  crushed  roses 
from  her  laces  and  held  them  towards  him. 

"Please  bury  these  petals — with  all  the  others." 

He  came  towards  her — about  to  speak,  but  she  waved 
him  back.  A  moment  later  she  had  passed  out  of  the 
loggia  by  the  door  which  communicated  with  her  private 
salon. 


The  great  white  moon  was  growing  pale  and  languid. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  201 


The  flash  of  stars,  jewels  of  unimagined  price,  was  becoming 
each  moment  fainter  and  still  more  faint. 

Silence,  sombre,  yet  mysteriously  restless,  imprisoned  the 
City  of  the  Caesars,  but  the  birds  were  already  beginning  to 
whisper  to  each  other  from  tree  to  tree — by  the  lake  and 
on  the  broad  terraces.  All  the  world  seemed  at  rest  but 
Princess  Borizoflf,  in  the  little  salon  which  communicated 
with  her  bedroom,  was  writing  a  letter  to  an  old  friend.  To 
a  man  who  had  loved  her  from  the  first  moment  his  dreamy 
eyes  had  rested  on  her  face  at  a  ball,  in  the  Imperial  Palace 
of  St  Petersburg. 

She  had  no  thought  of  sleep.  She  was  a  prey  to  conflict- 
ing emotions. 

In  the  luxurious  room — faintly  pink  and  grey  and 
silver  as  earliest  dawn — the  windows  were  wide  open  but 
the  air  was  warm,  and  sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  white 
jasmine.  On  the  writing-table  of  ebony  inset  with  ivory  there 
was  a  quaintly  fashioned  vase  holding  some  stalks  of  tuberose ; 
a  priceless  old  vase  that  carried  the  cobalt  enamel  over-glaze 
of  Kakiyemon  on  its  creamy  surface.  Close  by,  almost  under 
the  shadow  of  the  tuberose,  stood  the  little  carved  wood 
figure  of  the  dancing  girl,  and  very  often,  as  she  wrote,  the 
Princess  looked  at  the  tiny  wonderful  face  and  let  her 
thoughts  wander  to  the  lonely  cottage  in  the  mountains,  in 
the  blackness  of  pine  shadows  where  Love  had  been  enshrined. 

She  was  wrapped  in  a  peignoir  of  snowy  satin  and  white 
fox  furs,  and  in  the  voluminous,  shimmering  folds  her  stately 
figure  was  blotted  out  and  only  the  exquisite  face  remained. 
The  wrap  was  picturesque  of  design  and  there  was  a  large 
hood  which  she  drew  over  her  head  as  she  wrote — **I  am 
imagining  myself  a  sweet,  devout  Basque  peasant  woman, 
going  to  confession,  with  a  capuchon  drawn  close  over  my 
head.  I  understand  now  what  they  mean  when  they  say  that 
for  so  solemn  a  ceremony  it  is  *  discreet.'  And  I  also  am 
making  a  confession — in  the  certainty  of  receiving  sympathy 
and  understanding.     I  am  going  to  burden  you  with  my 


202  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


troubles  because  you  love  me  and  because  your  love  will 
make  you  suffer  with  me.  That  is  life — tres  cher  ami — our 
life,  we  poor  selfish  worldlings.  We  pretend  to  despise  love 
but  when  it  is  given  to  us  we  burden  it,  without  remorse. 
And  my  confession — which  I  am  making  in  fulfilment  of  a 
promise — you  remember  ?  You  remember  that  evening  when 
we  talked  of  love,  when  you  said  that  I  did  not  understand  it 
— probably  never  should  understand  ?  When  you  asked  me  to 
promise  to  tell  you,  immediately,  if  Love  ever  discovered  the 
gate  of  my  heart  ?  And  so  I  confess — yes.  At  least  I  think 
it  must  be — yes.  And  yet  I  am  not  quite  sure — for  I  am 
bewildered.  A  few  hours  ago  I  should  have  said  *  yes  '  freely, 
but  now — I  must  reflect.  Did  I  love  an  Ideal  or  do  I  love  a 
real  man  ?  And  is  it  really  the  love  of  the  poets  or — ^just  the 
momentary  fancy  of  a  woman  who  glories  in  a  fresh  sensation  ? 
Truly  Boris — I  hardly  know  but  I  think  it  is  the  love  that 
does  not  quickly  die.  You  will  guess  the  name  of  the  man. 
I  have  written  to  you  of  him  more  than  once  and  in  suflSci- 
ently  glowing  terms.  And  he  is  charming  and  delightful,  he 
must  always  remain  that — but  I  am  disappointed — bitterly, 
most  cruelly.  That  he  should  not  love  me  is  conceivable — you 
see  I  am  not,  after  all,  such  a  very  vain  woman.  But  that  he 
should  love — Violet  Hilliard?  It  is  absolutely  inexplicable. 
Beautiful — that  she  is  most  certainly,  and  beautiful  of  figure 
as  of  face,  but  such  a  dreadful  type  and  mixed  up  with 
impossible  people.  Already  she  has  been  made  the  centre  of  a 
scandal  by  Ivan  Apraxine — can  you  imagine  a  jeune  fille  du 
monde  being  permitted  to  go  about  alone  with  him  ?  And 
then  it  is  rumoured  that  her  father  is  arranging  a  marriage  for 
her  with  Serge  Platoff.  And  Madame  de  Brissac  is  her 
chaperon.  Is  it  not  horrible  ?  And  Miles  Bering  is  of  the 
world — he  must  know.  And  yet  he  wants  to  marry  her !  Do 
you  wonder  that  I  am  bewildered  ?  He  is  so  wonderful  in 
many  ways — his  thoughts,  his  ideas  stimulate  one  like  sparkling 
wine — they  seem  to  open  up  the  way  to  great  achievements. 
And  yet  it  is  with  him,  as  with  all  other  men,  simply  the 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


desire  of  the  eye  and  the  fascination  of  the  footlights;  for  her 
beauty,  though  undeniable,  is  the  beauty  of  the  stage,  just  as 
her  manners,  like  those  of  her  chaperon,  are  those  of  the 
Parisian  actress.  And  yet  he  loves  her !  It  was  impossible 
to  mistake  the  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  said,  an  hour  or  two 
ago,  *  More  than  my  life,'  in  answer  to  my  question,  *  You 
love  her?'  I  would  have  given  him  everything — I  wished  to 
do  it.  He  has  influenced  me  as  no  other  man  has  ever  done, 
and — his  influence  was  welcome.  With  him  I  really  believe  I 
might  have  become,  what  you  have  called,  *  a  comrade  of 
Love.'  I  had  made  it  easy  for  him  to  speak,  more  than  once, 
but  to-night  I  determined  to  know  the  truth.  And  I  do 
know  it — now  !  He  was  wilfully  blind — he  could  never  in  any 
circumstances  be  less  than  a  perfect  gentleman — but  he  did  not 
leave  me  in  doubt.  And  I  am  wounded  by  the  thought  that  I 
have  been  deceived — have  perhaps  deceived  myself :  that  he  is 
made  of  ordinary  clay  after  all,  like  other  men.  More  agree- 
able, far  more  gifted  but  still — ordinary  clay.  And  there  the 
problem  rests.  I  have  been  mistaken  in  him,  or — I  am 
mistaken  in  my  estimate  of  Miss  Hiliiard ;  and  that  cannot 
be.  She  is  impossible  in  every  way  and  she  does  not  love 
him.  You  will  tell  me — I  am  sure  of  it — that  I  ought  not  to 
judge  by  appearances.  You  are  a  believer  in  the  existence, 
in  everyone,  of  those  splendid  qualities  which  so  largely 
compose  your  own  personality  !  You  hold  that  we  have  but 
to  exercise  patience — to  take  trouble  to  seek  beneath  the 
surface,  and  that  these  beautiful  qualities  will  unveil  them- 
selves. It  is  the  belief  of  a  poet — of  a  true  lover  of  humanity, 
but,  cher  ami^  is  it  not  a  chimera  ?  There  are  those — and  I 
know  you  to  be  one  of  them — who  imagine  that  pure  and 
lovely  qualities  can  be  awakened,  if  not  actually  created,  by  a 
profound  belief  in  their  existence,  but  I  fear  that  it  would  be 
beyond  your  strength,  as  I  am  sure  it  will  be  beyond  his^  to 
awaken  pure  and  unworldly  thoughts  in  the  soul  of  Violet 
Hiliiard.  Deny  it  as  we  please,  atavism  is  virile.  And  this 
girl's   father   is  notorious.    A  gambler  who  always  wins : 


204  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


a  man  whose  friendship  is  more  to  be  dreaded  than  his 
enmity. 

You  will  think  me  bitter,  perhaps  you  will  think  that  I 
have  descended  to  the  level  of  jealousy  ?  And  in  a  sense  that 
is  true ;  I  am  jealous — not  of  a  woman,  but  for  the  reputation 
of  a  man.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  he  is  less  noble  than 
I  believed  him  to  be  ;  less  fine  in  character ;  less  discerning. 
Hero  worship  is  foreign  to  my  character  and  because  of  that 
it  hurts  me  to  have  to  suspect  that  his  feet  are  made  of  clay 
— after  all. 

"And  so  my  confession  is  made — my  promise  fulfilled. 
This  letter  will  not  surprise  you  for  I  am  sure  you  have  read 
between  the  lines  I  sent  you  ten  days  ago.  You  remember 
the  old  saying,  *  tout  le  monde  est  bete  U7ie  fois '  ?  How  very 
true  it  is  ?    Almost  quite  true,  I  think. — Gabrielle." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


IN  the  days  following  the  reception  at  the  Villa  Borizoff 
Miles  Bering  found  himself  more  than  ever  surrounded 
by  an  atmosphere  of  unrest.  His  thoughts,  winged  messengers, 
of  tireless  activity,  were  constantly  wending  their  way  towards 
Florence,  nevertheless  they  found  time  to  flutter  round  the 
famous  marble  loggia:  the  chosen  sanctum  of  a  woman  who 
had  seemed  to  unveil  her  heart  in  the  silence  and  mystery  of 
a  moonlit  night. 

There  were  moments  when  he  almost  believed  the  drawing 
aside  of  the  veil  had  been  real.  That  the  Princess  really 
cared  for  him.  And  then  again  he  remembered  her  caprici- 
ous, imperious,  character  and  he  smiled  at  his  ow^n  vanity. 
It  was  certain  that,  for  some  reason,  she  had  wished  to  draw 
very  near  to  him,  but  what  was  that  reason  ?  Was  it  composed 
of  curiosity  ?  Or  mere  caprice  ?  Or  had  the  flames  of  vertige 
scorched  her — for  a  single  moment? 

He  was  puzzled  and  at  the  same  time  elated :  he  did  not 
believe  she  really  loved  him  but  he  knew  she  had  trusted  him 
— absolutely.  She  had  recognized  in  him  the  "primeval'' 
qualities  which  make  betrayal  of  a  confidence  the  unforgiv- 
able sin. 

His  vanity — of  which,  after  all,  he  had  his  share — had 
been  flattered,  but  it  was  not  at  the  bidding  of  flattered  vanity 
that  his  thoughts  wandered  back,  again  and  again,  to  the  green 
and  white  salon  where  he  had  spent  many  pleasant  hours. 
He  really  liked  the  Princess  and  to  a  surprising  extent  he 
understood  her. 

On  the  afternoon  following  the  reception  he  had  received 
a  note  from  her.  A  few  lines  written  on  the  ivory  paper 
stamped  with  silver  with  which  he  had  become  familiar.  She 

205 


206 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


had  merely  said  au  revoir^^^  adding  that  she  was  going  to 
spend  a  few  days  with  friends  at  Frascati.  She  had  signed 
herself,    always  your  sincere  friend,  Gabrielle  Borizoff." 

He  found  hinaself  hoping  that  the  Httle  scene  in  the  loggia 
might  not  interfere  with  their  delightful  friendship,  but  some- 
thing whispered  that  things  could  never  again  be  just  as  they 
had  been.  He  felt  sorry  but  the  resentment  roused  by  the 
slighting  tone  in  which  the  words,  "  you  love  her — that  girl 
who  is  here  with  Madame  de  Brissac,''  had  been  spoken,  was 
still  present.  He  was  exaggeratedly  loyal  to  the  girl  he 
loved. 

He  thought  of  her^  and  of  the  precious  little  message  she 
had  sent  him  in  the  velvet  heart  of  a  red  rose,  when  he  buried 
the  crushed  petals  of  the  white  roses,  with  the  others,"  as 
the  Princess  had  commanded. 

And  his  pulses  throbbed  with  triumph,  for  things  were 
going  well  with  him.  So  well  that  even  she^  with  all  her 
delicious  pretence  of  worldliness,  would  have  reason  to  be 
satisfied. 

His  portrait  of  the  Pope  was  finished.  It  had  been  pro- 
nounced an  unqualified  success  by  influential  personages  in 
the  Vatican  circles  and  Cardinal  Santanini  was  delighted. 

Better  still — so  much  better  that  nothing  else  connected 
with  the  picture  seemed  important — he  realized  that  he  had 
suddenly,  almost  unconsciously,  found  the  shining  path  which 
led  to  success.  For  years  he  had  been  groping  in  the  dark 
and  in  the  twilight.  He  had  known  that  somewhere  there  was 
Light  but  the  path  to  it  had  been  difficult  to  find  and  he  had  lost 
his  way  many  times.  Encouraging  words  had  not  been  want- 
ing but  they  had  not  been  really  helpful,  even  those  which 
came  for  Dr  Doyenbert,  severest  of  critics.  It  had  been 
necessary  for  him  to  find  the  path  unaided,  and  he  had  found 
it  while  painting  the  portrait  of  the  gentle  old  man,  with  the 
kindly  eyes,  who  was  Sovereign  of  the  Vatican 

The  moment  of  the  "  private  view  — of  which  Daring  had 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


207 


laughingly  spoken  to  Mrs  Waring — had  arrived  and  he  was 
in  the  big  studio  awaiting  the  arrival  of  a  few  intimate 
friends. 

He  was  standing  by  a  window,  looking  out  on  the  little 
garden,  when  Clio  Waring  was  announced,  and  as  she  entered 
the  room,  closely  followed  by  Underwood,  the  painter  could 
not  help  glancing  from  one  face  to  the  other  with  some 
curiosity. 

They  had  apparently  made  up  their  little  difference  of 
opinion  :  they  were  again  frequently  together,  but  now,  Bering 
had  not  failed  to  note  this,  they  were  more  often  than  not 
members  of  a  party :  it  was  a  rare  thing  to  find  them  together 
alone. 

And  an  observant  eye  could  not  fail  to  recognize  the 
change  in  the  pretty  widow's  manner,  even  in  her  appearance. 
She  was  gay  but  in  her  gaiety  there  was  a  touch  of  cynicism 
and  something  of  defiance :  she  was  brilliant  and  amusing 
but  she  had  lost  something  of  the  fresh,  almost  girlish,  charm 
of  manner  which  had  made  her  a  thing  apart.  There  were 
moments  when  she  made  little  cutting  remarks,  even  about 
her  intimate  friends. 

She  was  lovely  as  ever  and  most  fascinating  but  she 
was  changed.  And  no  one  recognized  the  change  more 
clearly  than  did  the  big  American  who  had  for  so  long  been 
her  shadow. 

By  placing  a  determined  restraint  on  his  feelings  he  had 
bridged  over  the  gulf  of  uneasiness  that  had  yawned  between 
them.  Never  once  since  that  night  at  the  Villa  Borizoff  had 
he  alluded  to  the  momentous  interview  on  the  terrace  of  San 
Pietro  in  Montorio.  On  the  day  following  the  reception  he 
had  called  on  Clio  and  asked  her  to  take  a  drive,  and  his 
manner  had  been  so  calmly  friendly  that  she  could  find  no 
reason  for  a  refusal. 

She  was  looking  distractingly  pretty  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  "  private  view "  in  a  rather  wonderful  costume  of  dark 
blue  cloth  elaborately  braided  in  black  silk  and  trimmed,  very 


2o8  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


discreetly,  with  bands  of  sable.  On  her  head  she  wore  a 
picturesque  turban  of  dark  blue  velvet  and  at  her  breast — she 
was  a  woman  who  could  not  do  without  flowers — a  cluster  of 
Malmaison  carnations.  She  was  in  brilliant  spirits  and 
immediately  attacked  the  painter  about  Princess  Borizoff. 

Where  is  she  ?  she  cried.  "  And  what  is  she  up  to  ? 
I'm  certain  you  know,  for  it  suddenly  became  evident  to  me, 
the  other  evening,  that  you  and  Gabrielle  have  become 
violent  friends.  She  sent  me  a  note  saying  'shall  not  see 
you  for  a  few  days '  and  then  she  disappeared !  Where  is 
she  ?  And  what's  the  meaning  of  it  ? "  Bering  raised  his 
eyebrows. 

"  I  am  reminded  of  a  famous  telegram  which  was  once 
sent  off  by  the  great  white  man  of  South  Africa  to  a  friend. 
It  simply  gave  a  chapter  and  verse  in  the  Bible !  You  are  a 
little  over-excited  :  just  to  calm  your  nerves  I  refer  you  to 
Genesis  iv.  9." 

**What  on  earth  do  you  mean?'' 
Just  what  I  say." 
But  I  don't  understand  ?  " 

"  Tres  chere  Madame — is  it  possible  that  you  have  never 
received  any  religious  instruction?  " 

Underwood  came  to  the  rescue. 
I  am  not  very  sure  but  I  fancy  this  mysterious  young  man 
must  be  alluding  to  the  famous  question  —  *  Am  I  my 
brother's  keeper'?"  Bering  nodded.  He  was  looking 
steadily  at  Mrs  Waring's  indignant  face.  That  lady  delivered 
herself  of  a  sound  which  in  an  ordinary  individual  might 
have  been  described  as  a  sniff. 

"What  utter  nonsense — and  you  mugged  it  up!  I'm 
certain  you  did.  You  guessed  I'd  ask  you  about  Gabrielle 
and  you  had  your  answer  ready,  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue. 
You're  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  earth,  of  course,  but  I  don't 
believe  you're  clever  enough  to  think  of  that  without  pre- 
paration." 

Bering  laughed  delightedly.    Clio  Waring  was  one  of  his 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  209 


special  favourites  and  he  loved  to  tease  her.  She  turned  her 
back  on  him  and,  drawing  off  her  gloves,  looked  round  for 
the  portrait.  It  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  but  her  eyes  were 
attracted  by  a  large  flat  box,  open  and  veiled  in  silver  paper, 
standing  on  one  of  the  tables. 

"  Something  new  ?  "  she  said,  approaching  it.  Anything 
one  may  see  ?  " 

She  was  accustomed  to  examining  Bering's  treasures  and 
her  keen  intelligence  told  her  that  something  of  beauty  and 
value  lay  within  the  uncommon-looking  box.  Bering  made 
a  gesture  of  assent. 

*'  Yes,  I  put  it  there  for  you  to  see.  It's  a  present  from 
my  friend  Takeda — it  arrived  this  morning." 

He  pushed  aside  the  soft  papers  and  drew  out  one  of  the 
most  marvellous  kimonos  Clio  had  ever  seen.  Soft  satin  of 
pale  ivory,  with  embroidered  cherry  blossoms  staining  its 
pallor  and  a  flight  of  storks  crossing  its  straight  fronts.  The 
lining,  of  silk  supple  as  crepe^  was  faintly  blue  as  the  egg  of  a 
hedge-sparrow.  It  was  a  marvel  of  dainty  loveliness  and 
Clio's  eyes  expressed  keen  appreciation. 

"  It's  exquisite — quite  wonderful,"  she  said,  "  but  is  it  a 
present  iox  you  ?    Are  you  thinking  of  wearing  it  ?  " 

Both  men  laughed  as  the  painter  held  the  dainty  garment 
against  his  tall  figure. 

Not  exactly  !    It's  for  my  wife.'' 

Clio  stared  at  him. 

"  But  you  haven't  got  one  ?  " 
No  !    But  I  shall  have." 

She  gasped. 
It's  settled — I  mean — have  you — ?  " 

"  Made  up  my  mind  ?    Yes  !  " 

*'  But  there  are  other  minds  ?    I  mean  to  say  that  even 
you,  with  all  your  outrageous  determination,  can't  make  up 
other  people's  minds  ?    Even  you  have  got  to  ask  a  question 
and — wait  for  an  answer  ?  " 
Naturally  ! " 
14 


210  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


But— have  you  ? 

He  laughed.    "  No.    But  I  shall." 
But — ?    I  never  heard  of  such  a  thifig !    People  are 
sending  you  wedding  presents  and  you  haven't  even — ?  " 

^*  Asked  that  important  question  ?  That's  so,  but  then — 
you  must  remember  that  it  takes  some  time  for  a  parcel  to 
find  its  way  from  Japan  to  Rome  and  it's  always  best  to  be 
on  the  safe  side." 

"  Well — really,  you  are  the  most  impossible  man  I  ever 
heard  of.  It  would  serve  you  right  if — sAe  said  *  no  '  when 
you  do  ask." 

Bering  was  still  laughing  when  the  door  opened  and  the 
Duchessa  della  Rocca  entered  with  the  Cardinal :  immedi- 
ately behind  them  came  Dr  Doyenbert. 

The  painter  greeted  the  Duchessa  warmly  and  apologized 
for  the  absence  of  his  sister,  who  was  laid  up  with  a  severe 
cold.  He  was  in  high  spirits  and  insisted  that  they  should  be 
fortified  with  tea  before  inspecting  the  picture. 

"  Chu  has  made  it  extra  strong,"  he  said.  "  I  felt  con- 
vinced you  would  need  to  be  strengthened.  I  know  of 
nothing  more  exhausting  than  the  calling  up  of  polite  speeches 
when  polite  speeches  are  looked  for." 

Clio  Waring  was,  for  a  moment,  alone  with  Underwood. 
She  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

**What  does  it  mean?"  she  said  in  a  low  tone.  "  Is  it 
Gabrielle  ?    And  can  it  be  settled  ?  " 

Underwood  shook  his  head. 
He  was  only  teasing  you.    He  wouldn't  have  spoken  so 
lightly  if  he  had  really  meant  anything." 

I'm  not  so  sure  !  I  thought  it  was  that  girl,  you  know 
whom  I  mean,  but  now  I  really  do  think  it's  Gabrielle.  I 
saw  her  looking  at  him  the  other  night  and — one  can  always 
tell." 

He  looked  down  into  the  lovely  flushed  face. 
"I  suppose  so,"  he  said  quietly.    **When  one  feels  very 
strongly  about  anything  it  is  hard  to  control  one's  eyes." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  211 


For  a  moment  Clio  was  disconcerted.  Something  in  the 
grave  voice,  and  something  in  her  own  heart,  made  her  feel 
inclined  to  cry.  She  bit  her  lip  and,  resolutely  turning  away, 
crossed  the  room. 

The  old  Cardinal  was  sipping  his  tea  with  evident  enjoy- 
ment. His  fondest  hopes  had  been  realized  in  the  portrait  of 
his  revered  friend,  the  Holy  Father,  and  he  hugged  to  himself 
the  knowledge  that  he  understood  the  real  meaning  of  the 
picture  better  than  Dr  Doyenbert !  The  Cardinal  was  very 
human  in  some  respects,  if  in  many  others  he  was  more  saintly 
than  the  greatest  of  the  Saints.  And  he  dearly  loved  a  harm- 
less joke. 

As  he  sat  back  in  his  roomy  chair  his  beautiful  old  face 
seemed  carved  in  ivory  and  the  little  Japanese  boy,  Chu, 
regarded  him  in  breathless  admiration.  He  had  been  speaking 
of  a  painter,  just  dead,  who  had  devoted  his  immense  talent 
to  depicting  scenes  in  life  which  seemed  divorced  from  hope, 
The  Cardinal  had  keenly  appreciated  the  famous  man's 
ability  but  he  had  intensely  disliked  his  insistent  pessimism. 

"The  philosophy  of  pessimism  cannot  last,"  he  was  saying. 
Though  in  the  present  day  our  leading  men  deal  largely 
with  it.  On  all  sides  we  hear  that  life  is  sad  and  humanity 
ugly  and  unattractive.  ^  La  vie  est  triste  et  Phomme  est  laid ' 
is  the  parrot-cry  of  the  age :  and  it  is  untrue.  Diseased 
minds  may  see  life  in  this  light,  diseased  creatures,  who  are 
true  degenerates,  but  in  reality  life  remains  pure  and  beautiful 
— as  it  always  has  been.  And,  most  happily,  this  dreadful 
philosophy  of  pessimism  cannot  live.  It  has  been  sown 
broadcast  by  some  of  our  famous  men,  but  when  the  harvest 
comes  those  seeds  will  be  found  unfruitful.  Take,  for  example, 
the  case  of  Balzac  ?  His  work  must  live,  for  a  long  time, 
because  of  its  extraordinary  force  and  because  of  his  amazing 
powers  of  observation,  but  I  believe  that  his  influence  will 
decrease  rather  than  increase  as  time  rolls  on.  His  art  must 
live  but  his  philosophy  must  surely  die.  The  spirit  of  pes- 
simism will  slowly  cease  to  have  force  and  it  would  be  impos- 


212  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


sible  for  a  masterpiece,  even  from  the  pen  of  Balzac,  to  remain 
a  great  power  after  its  inner  meaning  had  ceased  to  exist." 
Doyenbert  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently  but  Bering 
broke  in. 

"Yes — I  am  of  the  same  opinion  as  your  Eminence.  I 
believe  with  Guizot  that  *//  fCy  a  que  les  optimistes  qui  fas  sent 
quelque  chose  en  ce  mo7tde.^  " 

"  You  really  believe  that  rubbish  ? 

Doyenbert  spoke  almost  roughly. 
Of  course — and  so  do  you  !    You  are  one  of  the  most 
determined  optimists  I  have  ever  met.    What  about  your 
belief  in  my  small  powers  ?    And  in  Uncle  Jack's  ideals  and 
in  the  ^  coming  all  right '  of  things  generally  ?  " 

"If  I  ever  said  I  believed  in  the  *  coming  all  right'  of 
things  I  deserve  to  have  my  tongue  scored  with  a  hot  iron  for 
certainly  I  don't  believe  in  anything  of  the  kind.  Things 
rarely  come  right  in  this  world,  and  when  they  do  it  is  because 
they  have  been  forced  into  unnatural  grooves  by  people  who 
realized  that  the  natural  course  of  *  things,'  as  of  men,  and — 
if  there  were  no  ladies  present  I  might  add — women,  is  a 
crooked  one.  If  you  want  straight  lines,  or  straight  thoughts, 
or  even  moderately  straight  actions,  you  must  guide  them, 
with  a  knout  in  one  hand.  It  is  natural  and  right  that  your 
Eminence  should  believe  in  goodness  and  inborn  beauty,  but 
outside  the  Church,  right  out  in  the  world,  believe  me  your 
fine  optimist  gets  left  behind.  He  hasn't  a  chance  against  the 
determined  pessimist  who  trusts  no  one,  believes  in  no  one — 
but  himself ;  who  doesn't  suffer  when  he  is  deceived  for  the 
excellent  reason  that  he  never  expected  anything  else." 

There  was  an  under-current  of  bitterness  in  the  tone  and 
the  Cardinal  raised  his  white  brows.  He  glanced  softly  at  his 
niece  and  her  beautiful  eyes  gave  him  a  silent  answer.  Mrs 
Waring  and  Underwood  looked  uncomfortable  but  Der  ng 
was  quite  unconcerned.  He  patted  the  doctor's  shoulder 
soothingly  as  he  said  : 

"  I  warned  you  against  those  elaborate  dinners,  dear  to 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  213 


the  hearts  of  some  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  friends  here.  Cer- 
tainly you're  suffering  from  a  violent  indigestion  !  Nothing 
short  of  that  could  have  the  power  to  make  you  so 
snappy — and  with  the  poor  optimists,  of  whom  I  am  chief. 
Plenty  of  hot  water — slowly  sipped  and  often,  that's  the  thing 
for  you.  Give  it  a  chance,  and  by  this  time  to-morrow  you'll 
find  yourself  another  man." 

Doyenbert  shook  ofi'  the  mocking  hand ;  his  fiery  temper 
had  broken  bounds. 

*'It  would  take  a  great  many  glasses  of  hot  water  to  make 
me  see  that  you  are  anything  but  a  wilfully  blind  fool,  young 
man.  You — and  all  your  fellow  optimists."  The  second 
sentence  was  obviously  introduced  as  a  concession  to  the  look 
of  alarm  and  reproach  on  Clio  Waring's  face.  "  I  tell  you  I 
find  unbearable  those  persons  who  have  such  a  belief  in  the 
natural  perfections  of  their  fellows  that  when  things  go  wrong, 
when  disillusion  arrives,  the  world  comes  to  an  end — for  them. 
They  are  broken-hearted  and  wretched — simply  because  they 
had  insisted  on  attributing  fine  qualities  to  people  who  never 
possessed  them — or  wanted  to  possess  them." 

You  are  thinking  of  some  special  fool  of  an  optimist?" 
I  am  thinking  of  you  !    But  it  does  not  matter.    We  are 
not  here  to  hold  the  balance  for  optimism  and  pessimism : 
we  are  here  to  see  the  picture." 

Bering  looked  at  him  a  minute — straight  in  the  eyes. 
Then  he  walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  where  a  heavy 
upright  easel  stood,  the  big  canvas  clamped  to  it  having  its 
face  turned  to  the  wall.  The  easel  was  on  wheels  and  the 
painter  pushed  it  into  position  without  effort.  At  the  last 
moment  he  turned  it  sharply  and  brought  the  picture  before 
the  little  group. 

The  canvas  was  very  large  and  it  held  the  three-quarter- 
length,  life-size  portrait  of  a  gentle-looking  old  man  with 
white  hair.    Of  accessories  there  were  none.    The  Pope  was 
sitting  in  an  arm-chair  covered  with  dark-coloured  velvet,  and 
I    he  was  wearing  his  familiar  white  cloth  cassock,  his  white 

I 

i 
I 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


cape  and  broad  white  sash  fringed  with  gold :  on  his 
beautiful  white  hair  rested  a  white  skull  cap.  The  whole 
picture  gave  an  instant  impression  of  dazzling  whiteness  and, 
with  evident  intention,  the  gold  embroideries  on  the  sash  had 
been  so  subdued  that  they  seemed  to  melt  away  into  the 
mysterious  blackness  of  the  vague  background.  It  was  the 
portrait  of  an  old  man  who  looked  a  little  weary.  The 
rather  heavy  face  was  slightly  inclined  to  one  side,  and  the 
determined  mouth,  strong  of  outline  but  capable  of  great 
sweetness,  was  set.  The  right  arm  of  the  white-robed  figure 
rested  on  a  table  and  the  hand  was  raised,  the  first  and 
second  fingers  separated  from  the  others,  in  Benediction. 
The  conception  of  the  picture  was  simplicity  itself,  but  the 
triumph  of  the  artist  lay  in  the  wonderful  expression  of  the 
eyes — haunting  eyes,  embedded  in  thoughtful  lids,  looking 
out  on  the  world — and  far  beyond  it,  out  into  futurity. 

Doyenbert  had  not  seen  the  picture  since  the  early  days 
when  he  and  the  painter  had  had  a  heated  discussion  about 
it :  at  least  the  critic  had  been  heated.  He  had  then  washed 
his  hands  of  the  whole  affair,  leaving  it  to  his  old  friend 
the  Cardinal  to  demand  any  alterations  he  might  consider 
advisable.  He  had  been  keenly  disappointed  over  Bering's 
conception  of  the  portrait.  It  was  not  at  all  what  he  had 
expected,  or  hoped  for.  His  own  picture,  that  amazing 
portrait  of  nerves,"  was  ten  times  more  remarkable.  He 
had  faith  in  Bering's  talent — which  he  believed  amounted 
almost  to  genius — but  he  had  begun  to  fear  that  Violet 
Hilliard  would  prove  an  obstacle  in  the  path  of  an  otherwise 
certain  success.  He  had  disliked  the  girl  from  the  beginning, 
but  of  recent  days  he  had  come  to  hate  her,  for  he  believed 
that  it  was,  in  some  way,  due  to  her  influence  that  the  man 
in  whom  he  felt  such  an  interest  had  elected  to  paint  an 
ordinary  popular"  picture.  For  popular"  was  the  word 
he  had  applied  to  it  in  its  early  stages. 

And  now  that  he  saw  it  finished  he  could  hardly  bring 
himself  to  be  just,  even  to  himself  as  a  trained  critic. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  215 


He  was  prepared  to  dislike  the  portrait  and,  quite 
honestly,  he  did  not  know,  for  the  first  minute  or  two, 
whether  he  liked  it  or  not :  only  he  knew  that  it  surprised 
him.  There  was  something  in  it  he  did  not  understand  and 
could  not  account  for.  The  hand  was  raised  in  Benediction 
but  the  face  gave  the  impression  that  the  Holy  Father  was 
receiving — rather  than  giving. 

There  was  silence  in  the  big  studio:  then  Doyenbert 
said — slowly. 

What  was  your  idea  in  this?  That  is  the  face  of  a  man 
who  is  listening — to  what  ?  " 

A  slight  sound,  could  it  have  been  a  chuckle,  broke  from 
the  Cardinal.    He  sat  up  very  straight  in  his  chair. 

"  *  es  Petrus^  et  super  hanc  peiram  cedificabo  Ecclesiam 
meam, ' " 

The  golden  voice,  which  had  so  often  brought  tears  to  the 
eyes  of  listeners,  in  the  Preface  and  in  the  Paternoster, 
seemed  to  have  regained  the  strength  of  youth :  it  rang 
through  the  great  room. 

Everyone  turned  towards  the  old  man  and  he  met  the 
questioning  glances  with  a  beaming  smile. 

have  waited  for  this  moment — quite  a  long  time!  I 
have  been  a  very  sinful  old  man,  my  dear  friend,"  stretching 
out  his  white  hand  to  Doyenbert,  "for  1  have  wanted  to 
*  catch  you  out,'  as  the  children  say.  I  had  hoped  so  very 
much  that  I  should  have  just  one  Httle  triumph  over  the 
greatest  of  critics — that  I,  a  poor  ignorant  old  man,  should 
be  in  a  position  to  show  you  why  this  portrait  is  one  of  the 
greatest  ever  painted — in  modern  days  at  least.  It  is 
a  portrait  of  the  heart  of  the  Church — Doyenbert.  It  is 
symbolic  of  the  Church — in  all  ages.  The  Holy  Father  is 
listening — you  appreciated  that  ?  He  is  listening  to  the  words 
which  have  rung  through  the  ages  and  which  form  our  war- 
cry  ;  *  Tu  es  Petrus ! '  He  is  listening,  and  as  he  hstens  he 
speaks — the  Benediction.  He  receives,  and  as  he  receives  he 
bestows.    Is  not  that  the  ideal  Church  and  the  ideal,  Earthly, 


2i6  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Head?  I  have  hugged  to  myself  my  knowledge  of  this 
picture,  and,  time  and  again,  have  rejoiced  over  it.  And  my 
joy  has  been  only  partly  selfish,  for  this  portrait  will  decide 
the  position  of  our  young  friend  here — in  the  world  of  art. 
It  is  truly  great,  and  everyone  will  have  to  admit  it — sooner  or 
later.    I  think  it  will  be  sooner." 

He  looked  round  on  the  eager  faces  of  his  listeners  and 
smiled.    Then  he  beckoned  Bering  to  his  side. 

I  am  satisfied,  my  son,  and — I  find  that  I  am  tired ! 
The  excitement  of  evil  designs  is  not  for  a  poor  old  man 
such  as  I  am.  My  niece  and  I  will  take  our  leave  but  I 
wish  you  to  feel  sure  that  the  Holy  Father  is  perfectly 
satisfied  and  that  he  and  I  pray  constantly  for  your  happiness. 
You  are  a  good  boy — you  deserve  the  reward  of  a  courageous 
optimist!''  He  glanced  at  the  doctor,  who  was  still  looking 
closely  at  the  picture,  and  smiled  slyly.  "  I  take  credit  to 
myself  that  I  did  not  bring  forward  my  excellent  little  play 
on  words  which  included  *  inception  ' ! ''  Then  as  Bering 
bent  low  and  laid  his  lips  on  the  dehcate  old  hand  the  golden 
voice  murmured  softly  :  Noctem  quietam  et  finem  perfectum 
concedat  nobis  Bominus  omnipotens." 

When  Bering  returned  to  the  studio,  after  having  seen 
the  Cardinal  and  his  niece  into  their  old-fashioned  carriage, 
upholstered  in  black  and  drawn  by  sombre  black  horses, 
three  persons  were  standing  close  together,  conversing  in 
low  tones :  as  he  entered  they  moved  apart  and  Mrs  Waring 
prepared  to  go. 

Boyenbert  came  back  to  the  picture  and  stood  before  it. 

"The  Cardinal  was  right — it  is  a  masterpiece.  I  beheve 
it  to  be  the  greatest  portrait  of  modern  days." 

He  spoke  calmly,  almost  coldly,  but  Bering  understood 
him.  A  slight  flush  rose  to  his  bronzed  face  and  he  grasped 
the  doctor's  hand. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  am  more  than  gratified. 
I  wish,  to-day  more  than  ever,  that  Uncle  Jack  could  come 


« 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  217 

back  to  us — even  for  a  day  or  two.  The  dear  old  fellow 
was  so  overpoweringly  anxious  to  see  me  fairly  launched." 

Doyenbert's  face  grew  suddenly  hard  and  he  compressed 
his  thin  lips.  Then  seeing  that  Mrs  Waring  was  waiting 
to  say  good-bye,  he  turned  towards  the  door. 

"  Much  better  off  where  he  is.  He  set  your  happiness 
before  everything.    I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  want  him  back." 

He  held  the  big  carved  door  wide  open,  and  as  Mrs 
Waring  and  Underwood  passed  out  he  followed  them. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


SIR  WESTON  HILLIARD  was  smoking  an  after 
dejeuner  cigar  in  a  small  salon  which  gave  oflf  the 
red  and  gold  dining-room  belonging  to  the  Comtesse  de 
Brissac's  suite  at  the  Hotel  Bristol. 

He  was  feeling,  and  looking,  a  contented  man. 
Tall  and  straight,  with  a  well-preserved  figure  and  dark- 
brown  hair  that  owed  something  to  art,  he  was  distinguished- 
looking  as  well  as  handsome,  and  to  the  ordinary  observer 
his  heavy-lidded  grey  eyes  seemed  attractive.  Here  and 
there  persons  were  to  be  found  who  declared  that  the  sporting 
Baronet  had  the  eyes  of  a  society  pawnbroker :  that  he  could, 
at  a  single  glance,  sum  up  the  possibilities  of  a  fluttering 
human  pigeon  and  realize  the  exact  amount  of  skill,  also 
the  nature  of  same,  required  for  the  quiet  plucking  of  the 
golden  feathers. 

Certain  it  was  that  Weston  Hilliard  knew  something 
of  human  weaknesses  and  that  he  was  not  too  proud  to 
manipulate  them.  He  was  an  excellent  chess  player,  though 
he  rarely  permitted  himself  to  waste  time  over  a  game  in 
which  the  triumph  of  the  brain  takes  the  place  of  the  triumph 
of  the  purse,  and  he  knew  the  value  of  pawns. 

He  was  essentially  and  above  all  a  credit  to  his  tailor. 
Most  Englishmen  who  have  the  right  of  entry  to  the 
exclusive  clubs  of  Pall  Mall  seem  to  have  been  born  with 
a  correct  understanding  of  the  art  of  dress,  but  in  the  case 
of  Sir  Weston  this  natural  understanding  had  been  gently 
nourished;  with  the  result  that  no  man  in  Europe  could 
wear  a  rough  shooting  suit,  stained  with  age  and  a  size 
too  large,  with  the  same  exasperating  grace:  exasperation 
entering  the  field  in  the  wake   of  spick-and-span  foreign 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  219 


"sports."  With  regard  to  his  age — he  might  have  been 
a  man  of  forty-five  who  had  knocked  about :  or  fifty-five, 
in  possession  of  an  excellent  valet :  or  even  sixty — with 
the  backing  of  a  Parisian  coiffeur  who  knew  how  to  appreciate 
first-class  recommendations. 

He  was  undoubtedly  aristocratic.  Race  betrayed  itself 
in  the  finely-cut  features  of  the  somewhat  hard  face,  in 
the  delicate  beauty  of  the  long-fingered  white  hands  and 
in  the  small  feet,  of  which  he  was  inordinately  vain.  He 
was  connected,  by  blood  or  by  marriage,  with  many  of  the 
most  notable  families  of  England,  but  he  was  inconveniently 
and  chronically  hard  up.  At  least  he  had  been,  almost 
always. 

But  now  ? 

He  softly  drew  in  a  volume  of  smoke  and  very  slowly 
emitted  it  through  his  nostrils.    Things  were  marching ! 

No  more  idiotic  boys  who  wanted  to  see  life  without 
paying  the  proper  price.  No  more  tiresome  notices  from 
tradespeople  who  failed,  after  a  due  season,  to  realize 
that  to  be  patronized  by  Sir  Weston  Hilliard  was,  in  itself, 
an  all-sufficient  compliment.  No  more  clever  little  tricks 
with  cards  which,  once  or  twice,  had  caused  silly  boys, 
prompted  by  morning  libations  of  soda-water  and  splitting 
headaches,  to  say  awkward  things. 

Certainly  no  one  had  ever  proved  anything.  What  had 
there  been  to  prove  ?  But  all  the  same  the  life  of  a  fashion- 
able man  of  the  world  becomes  wearing  when  the  lack  of 
pounds — to  shiUings  or  pence  the  Baronet  gave  little  heed 
except  when  overlooking  the  outstretched  hands  of  menials 
in  the  vestibule  of  an  hotel — was  continually  forcing  itself 
to  the  front. 

He  had  worked  hard,  a  deuced  deal  too  hard,  all  his 
life;  and  now  he  was  about  to  enjoy  an  Indian  summer. 
He  silently  asked  a  blessing  on  his  dead  wife — ^who,  poor 
dear,  had  been  such  a  wet  blanket  while  she  lived — for 
having  presented  him  with  a  daughter.    For  having  given 


220  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


him  the  means  of  securing  comfort  and  —  yes,  cer- 
tainly he  might  go  as  far  as  that — luxury,  in  his  old 
age. 

Violet  had  been  tiresome  as  a  child.  She  had  been 
guilty  of  the  abominable  sin  of  asking  questions — if  not 
with  her  tongue  with  her  eyes.  She  had  been  far  too  wide 
awake  for  a  properly-educated  jeune  fille  and,  at  times, 
ridiculously  romantic  and  sentimental.  He  recalled,  with 
sensations  of  disgust,  little  scenes  he  had  had  in  the  days 
when  he  had  played  the  role  of  the  fond  papa.  She  had 
been  a  mere  child  but  she  had  had  spirit :  far  too  much 
of  it.  He  had  always  recognized  the  possibilities,  mental 
and  physical,  embraced  in  his  daughter's  personality  but 
he  had  never  felt  sure  of  her.  There  had  been  times  when 
his  sister's  influence  had  seemed  paramount,  and  anything 
more  disastrous  than  that  influence  he  found  impossible 
to  imagine. 

But  now  her  great  chance  had  come — and  his. 
A  marriage.    And  such  a  marriage  ! 

Never,  in  his  most  gilded  dreams,  had  he  ventured  to 
look  for  such  a  stroke  of  good  luck. 

Prince  PlatofF  wanted  to  marry  Violet !  Had  actually 
made  a  formal  proposal — to  him,  Weston  Hilliard. 

It  was  superb :  all  the  world  seemed  bathed  in  golden 
sunshine. 

As  he  lay  back  in  his  big  arm-chair  and  crossed  his  long 
legs,  clothed  in  immaculate  grey,  he  thought  of  his  pro- 
spective son-in-law.  Platoff — one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in 
Europe.  What  a  stroke  of  luck.  Unexpected :  over- 
whelmingly welcome. 

The  day  before  when  he  arrived  in  Rome  he  had 
been  in  a  vile  temper.  Everything  had  seemed  black  and 
dreary.  He  had  just  come  from  a  long  interview  with  his 
sister,  who  was  staying  in  Florence.  And  his  dislike  for 
that  sister  amounted  almost  to  hatred. 

She  was  a  year  or  two  older  than  he  was,  and  if  he  had 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  221 


the  title  it  was  she  who  had  the  money — inherited  from  an 
eccentric  old  godmother. 

She  had  settled  his  debts  more  than  once  but  for  that 
he  felt  no  gratitude :  she  had  taken  payment  in  words  of 
advice.  Weston  Hilliard  smiled  grimly  as  he  thought  of  his 
sister  and  her  gift  of  saying  disagreeable  things.  And  the 
smile  broadened  as  he  remembered  that  it  was  he  who  had 
set  Violet  against  her  aunt.  Miss  Hilliard  had  really  loved  the 
girl  and  had  wished,  in  her  rather  cold  way,  to  be  kind  to  her, 
but  Violet,  influenced  by  her  father,  had  kicked  against  the 
restraints  of  home  life  with  a  woman  whose  existence  was 
given  up  to  thrusting  advice  on  people" — this  was  Sir 
Weston's  phrase. 

He  had  taken  her  away  from  her  aunt  and  in  so  doing 
he  had  wounded  his  sister  sorely,  but  then  he  also  had  paid ; 
had  he  not,  for  several  years,  saddled  himself  with  a  romantic, 
impulsive  girl  who  might  have  been  useful  but  who  couldn't 
be  depended  on  from  hour  to  hour? 

He  looked  back  on  the  recent  meeting  with  his  sister. 
She  had  said  a  good  many  unpleasant  things,  but  that  was 
nothing  new.  She  had  also  given  him  a  piece  of  valuable 
information. 

It  was  his  sister  who  had  spoken,  with  undisguised  disgust 
and  horror,  of  Prince  Platoff's  reported  intentions  with  re- 
gard to  Violet.  Miss  Hilliard  had  not  imagined  even  for  a 
moment  that  her  brother  v;ould  approve  of  such  a  marriage  : 
she  knew  him  sufficiently  well  but  she  still  credited  him 
with  some  shght  decency  of  feeling.  And  there  were  exist- 
ing circumstances  which  made  it  an  outrage — or  so  it 
seemed  to  her.  Weston  Hilliard  had  listened  in  silence, 
and  with  eyes  cast  down  to  hide  their  triumph.  He  had 
listened  and  he  had  deprecated  the  rumour.  ^^Tm  certain 
there's  nothing  in  it "  he  had  said.  Nevertheless  he  had 
taken  train  for  Rome  that  night  and  in  his  heart  there  was 
hope  and  determination.  It  would  be — must  be — difficult 
to  manage  the  situation :  there  was  the  girl  to  be  dealt  with 


222  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


and — there  was  his  cousin  Muriel  de  Brissac.  And  he  knew 
that  the  difficulty  would  concentrate  itself  there, 

Platoff  was  in  love  with  Violet.  So  much  he  had  realized 
in  the  short  interview  he  had  had,  that  morning,  with  the 
Russian. 

He  loved  her  :  he  desired  her :  he  was  determined,  at 
all  costs,  to  marry  her.  And  the  girl  could  easily  be  made 
to  see  the  fascination  of  the  position.  She  was,  he  believed, 
half  in  love  with  *^that  cad  of  a  painter,"  but  nevertheless 
she  was  his  daughter  and  already  she  knew  the  necessity  for 
money.  She  had  often  quivered  under  the  lash  of  aristocratic 
poverty ;  she  had  often  been  made  to  feel  that  the  daughter 
of  a  semi-professional  gambler — however  distinguished  he 
might  be — was  not  a  person  of  much  account.  And  then 
she  was  vain  and  pleasure-loving.    That  would  help. 

Sir  Weston  pressed  his  head  against  the  cushions,  closed 
his  eyes  and  gave  himself  up  to  golden  dreams. 

Five  minutes,  perhaps  ten  passed,  and  then  the  door 
opened  and  someone  entered  quickly.  He  looked  up  and 
even  his  selfish  nature  was  stirred  by  the  appearance  of  the 
woman  who  entered. 

Muriel  de  Brissac  looked,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
a  middle-aged  woman. 

He  stood  up  and  drew  forward  a  chair  for  her.  She 
stared  at  him,  nervously  played  with  the  cords  on  the  curved, 
padded  back  of  a  luxurious  lounge,  and  then  she  sat  down 
suddenly. 

I  won't  permit  it.  My  mind  is  absolutely  made  up. 
I  won't  permit  it." 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence.  Years  before  he  had  been 
one  of  her  warmest  admirers  and  always  they  had  been  close 
friends.  He  had  indirectly  arranged  her  marriage  with 
Henri  de  Brissac,  and  she  had  many  times  helped  him  with 
worldly  advice — even  with  money. 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  and  as  he  looked  he  wondered. 
Was  it  possible  that  a  woman  so  intelligent,  so  thoroughly 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  223 


worldly,  could  really  fee/ like  this?  Could  love,  or  passion, 
or  the  craze  for  possession,  make  a  thorough-paced  woman 
of  the  world  lose  herself  in  this  way?  For  that  she  had 
for  the  moment  completely  lost  hold  on  herself  was  evident. 
Her  face  was  lined  and  quivering :  her  eyes  were  blazing 
with  anger  and  defiance :  her  splendid  red  lips  were  tightly 
pressed  together  and  she  was,  with  difficulty,  controlling 
an  outburst  of  tears.  Weston  Hilliard  really  felt  horrified. 
He  had  expected  anger  and  reproaches  but — not  this.  And 
just  at  that  moment  a  cold  hand  seemed  to  creep  round 
his  heart  and  to  gather  in  his  high  hopes. 

What  if,  after  all,  the  golden  dream  should  never 
become  a  golden  reality  ? 

He  threw  away  his  cigar  and  drew  his  chair  closer, 

"Muriel,"  he  said,  "look  here,  this  is  not  the  moment 
for  sentiment — we  have  to  look  hard  facts  in  the  face.  This 
affair  cannot  be  agreeable  to  you,  that  I  understand,  but 
it's  inevitable.  Platoff  is  a  man  in  an  important  position 
and  he  has  no  direct  heir.  Que  voukz-vous?  He  must 
marry — some  time  or  other,  and  isn't  it  much  better  that 
the  matter  should  be  arranged — in  the  family?  You've 
always  stood  up  for  marriages  of  convenience,  and  you  know 
just  how  much  and  how  little  they  may  mean  !  Why  then, 
in  the  name  of  everything  sensible,  worry  yourself  into  a 
fever?  Platoff  is  not  going  out  of  the  family?  Things 
will  remain — a  peu  pres^  much  as  they  have  been  this  long 
time  past.  Violet  doesn't  much  like  him — so  much  I 
gather  from  what  you  have  said — but  she'll  like  the  position, 
and  he  apparently  wishes  to  marry  and  settle  down.  And 
then  I  want  a  son-in-law  who  can  provide  decently  for  my 
old  age,  and  you — " 

"Yes?    And  I?" 

He  bent  forward  and  touched  her  arm. 

"My  dear  girl,  I  don't  want  to  be  a  brute  but,  honestly, 
you  need  a  coat  of  moral  whitewash — and  this  marriage 
will  supply  it.    Oh,  yes — it's  quite  true.    I've  heard  no  end 


224  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


of  things  lately.  People  are  beginning  to  be  very  unpleasant, 
and  if  things  had  gone  on  as  they  were  going  you'd  soon 
have  found  yourself  left  out  in  the  cold :  even  as  it  is  there 
are  a  good  many  women  who  wouldn't  ask  you  to  dinner — 
now.    Princess  Borizoff,  for  example,  and  several  others." 

don't  care  in  the  least  for  the  Borizoff  woman — or  what 
she  may  think." 

"  My  dear  Muriel — you  must  care.  She's  related  to 
Platoff  and  her  word  is  law  in  society.  The  very  fact  that  she 
has  openly  sided  with  his  sister,  against  you,  has  done  you  no 
end  of  harm — here  in  Rome." 

Conceited  beast — I  hate  her." 

Very  likely,  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter. 
If  you  could  get  her  to  recognize  you,  properly,  you  would  be 
all  right,  and  if  Violet  marries  the  Prince  she  must  do  so — she 
can't  help  it  without  making  a  scandal." 

Muriel  de  Brissac  looked  up  quickly.  Her  cousin  had 
said  just  the  thing  likely  to  influence  her ;  he  knew  her  very 
well  indeed.  It  had  long  been  the  ambition  of  her  social  life 
to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  Princess  Borizoff.  She  had 
secretly  made  many  attempts  to  get  intimate  with  the  woman 
who  ruled  the  world  of  fashion  so  autocratically.  She  had 
even — on  one  single  occasion — suggested  to  Serge  Platoff 
that  he  should  influence  his  "  cousin,"  but  Platoff  had  smiled  ; 
and  in  his  smile  there  had  been  meaning.  The  Comtesse 
knew  that  Madame  Borizoff  considered  her  Outside  her  own 
circle,  and  this  knowledge  had  always  brought  with  it  exceed- 
ing bitterness. 

She  continued  to  stare  at  the  man  who  had  dared  to  speak 
so  plainly,  and  he,  with  complete  unconcern,  returned  her 
intent  look.    At  last  she  spoke. 

"  You  imagine  that  Serge  is  in  love  with  —  your 
daughter?  " 

"  I  am  quite  convinced  that  he  is  nothing  of  the  sort ! " 

And  yet  you  wish  him  to  marry  her  ?" 
"  1  wish  it  most  profoundly — more  ardently  than  ever  I 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  225 


wished  anything  in  my  life !  I  wish  it  for  my  own  sake  and 
— you  may  believe  it,  Muriel — I  wish  it  for  yours.  I've 
always  been  fond  of  you  and,  by  Jove,  it  cuts  me  up  to  find 
you  going  downhill  while  you  ought  still  to  be  at  your  best. 
YouVe  had  your  way  a  good  while  now,  and  Henri  hasn't 
made  himself  objectionable.  You've  had  a  splendid  innings 
and  now  you  ought  to  have  the  sense  to  pull  up,  for  a  moment, 
and  let  things  dry  straight.  Platoff  is  no  end  of  a  good  fellow, 
but  you  know  he  could  at  any  moment  pick  and  choose  as  he 
wished.  There  isn't  a  woman  in  Europe  who  would  refuse 
him,  and  if  he  married,  out  of  the  family,  there  would  be  an 
end  of  the  matter.  You've  been  a  good  bit  talked  about  and 
if  Platoff  were  seen  with  you  after  his  marriage,  that's  if  he 
married  a  stranger,  it  would  be  the  end  of  you,  socially.  If 
Violet  cared  about  him  I  wouldn't  of  course  say  these  things, 
but  if  she  only  marries  him  for  the  position  it  won't  matter  to 
her  if  the  world  goes  on  in  its  old  sweet  way  ?  " 
"I  believe  she's  in  love  with  that  man  Bering." 
Very  likely.  My  dear  sister  Rachel  has  done  her  best 
to  bring  that  about.  She's  hand  in  glove  with  these  Derings 
and  she  believes  this  painter  cad  to  be  one  of  the  elect.  She 
confided  her  hopes  to  me  the  other  day  when  I  saw  her  at 
Florence." 

"  It  mightn't  be  such  a  bad  thing.  People  are  beginning 
to  talk  about  him  and  besides — no  doubt  Rachel  would  make 
Violet  a  handsome  allowance?  " 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  a  drowning  animal  wildly 
endeavouring  to  save  itself  and  to  know  that  the  only  possible 
means  of  rescue  must  be  swept  away — ruthlessly.  Weston 
Hilliard  was  not  really  a  fiend,  and  he  did  not  find  it  agreeable 
to  have  to  push  the  struggling  head  under  water :  nevertheless 
it  had  to  be  done. 

You  think  it  would  help  the  situation  if  Violet  married 
this  charlatan  and  if  Platoff  married  —  the  Lord  knows 
who  ?  " 

Something  like  a  sob  broke  in  the  woman's  throat. 
15 


226  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  You  think  Serge  would  marry — in  any  case  ?  " 
Tm  sure  of  it !  He's  no  longer  a  young  man,  and  how- 
ever lightly  the  responsibilities  of  a  great  position — for  he  is  a 
very  big  pot  in  his  own  country — may  sit  on  his  shoulders 
they  exist,  these  responsibilities,  nevertheless.  At  the  present 
moment  he  has  no  direct  heir  and  it's  only  natural  he  should 
think  of  the  future,  just  a  little.  And  then  his  sister,  of  whom 
you  have  made  a  bitter  enemy,  is  always  reminding  him  of 
his  'duty' — so  I've  been  told.  And  then  what  could  be 
more  admirable  than  this  idea  of  his?  He  marries — that  of 
course  you  don't  care  about — but  then — he  remains  in  the 
family  !  He  has  been  a  wonder  from  start  to  finish  and  we 
simply  must  humour  him  a  bit ;  besides  that,  this  particular 
marriage  will  be  the  finest  thing  that  ever  happened — for  us 
all.  Tout  le  monde  will  be  satisfied  and  you  will  at  last  take 
your  proper  place  in  society !  And  believe  me  a  man  of 
Platoffs  temperament  will  find  you  doubly  attractive  when 
you  are,  in  reality,  what  the  newspaper  men  call  'a  society 
Queen.'  You're  still  a  splendid  looking  woman  and  sufficiently 
young  but  you  must  remember  that  you've  been  younger  1 
The  good  days  of  a  beauty  aren't  limitless.' 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  She  was  trying  to  read  his 
thoughts  :  trying  to  decide  how  much  of  his  satisfaction  was 
entirely  personal.  She  had  no  illusions  about  him  but  she 
did  believe  m  his  affection  for  her. 

Weston  Hilliard  smoked  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes. 
Then  he  said : 

What's  there  about  this  fellow  Bering  that  makes  the 
women  run  after  him  ?  I  dined  with  Chesterton  while  I  was 
at  Florence  and  he  said  it  was  rumoured  that  her  great 
almightiness,  Princess  Borizoff,  had  been  seen  about 
with  him?" 

''Yes,  it's  quite  true,  and  Serge  says  he  believes  she  actu- 
ally has  some  idea  of  marrying  him.  Violet  has  always  hated 
the  Borizoff  woman  and  I  think  the  idea  of  spoiling  sport,  in 
that  quarter,  has  had  as  much  to  do  with  her  interest  in 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  227 


Dering  as  anything  else,  though  she  certainly  does  like  him 
and  of  course  he's  madly  in  love  with  her." 

"  That's  natural  enough.  Violet  is  an  attractive  girl — in 
her  own  way." 

'*But  why  will  you  insist  that  he  is  impossible — as  a 
husband  for  her  ?  You  know  you've  often  said  that  Rachel 
must  be  very  well  off,  and  if  it  would  please  her — ?  " 

"  But  it  wouldn't  please  me  at  all  that  my  daughter  should 
marry  a  complete  outsider,  a  charlatan — all  the  Paris  artists 
call  him  that.  After  all  I'm  her  father  and  I  have  a  father's 
feelings." 

The  Comtesse  looked  down.  She  was  bracing  herself  for 
a  final  effort, 

"But  they  say  he  has  just  finished  a  most  wonderful 
portrait  of  the  Pope  and  that  he  will  get  a  lot  of  money  for  it. 
People  are  beginning  to  talk  about  it  already." 

"  Good  Lord  !  The  poor  dear  old  Pope  !  And  oi  course 
people  are  *  beginning  to  talk'  for  people  always  talk  when 
someone  has  been  clever  enough  to  give  them  a  start.  This 
chap  Dering  has  apparently  had  sense  enough  to  reahze  that 
two  daubs  of  paint  and  a  big  canvas  can  create  a  fine  reputa- 
tion for  a  painter  if  only  some  individuals  of  the  Art  Critic 
persuasion  can  be  induced  to  screw  up  their  eyes,  stick  out 
thumbs  as  if  they  were  deciding  the  fate  of  a  gladiator,  and 
gas  about  *  values '  and  *  impressions  '  and  *  the  art  of  to- 
morrow.' It's  a  case  of  if-you-don't-see-it-it's-because-you- 
aren't-one-of-the-elect !  Everyone  pretends  to  see  just  a  little 
farther  than  his  neighbour,  and  who's  to  say  he  doesn't  ?  " 

The  Comtesse  smiled  and  Hilliard  looked  relieved. 

The  worst  was  over. 

She  sat  quite  still  a  minute  01  two ;  then  she  said  : 
There  won't  be  any  serious  trouble  with  Violet.  She 
likes  Dering  but  I  can  always  manage  her — when  I  want  to. 
If  /  consent  to  this  marriage  there's  an  end  of  the  matter." 

The  Baronet  busied  himself  with  a  cigar  which  seemed 
difficult  to  keep  alight.    The  shadow  of  a  smile  hovered  round 


228 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


the  corners  of  his  mouth.  It  was  very  necessary  that  his 
cousin  should  believe  her  influence  still  dominant  with  the 
Russian  but — the  situation  had  its  comic  side  ! 

When  at  last  the  cigar  was  arranged  to  his  satisfaction  he 
looked  up  gravely. 

*0f  course.  But  then  we  must  take  into  consideration 
the  possible  interference  of  my  revered  sister  Rachel !  She's 
a  particularly  tough  bird  and  will  require  discreet  basting. 
The  dear  thing  is  at  the  moment  in  Florence  but  she  is 
coming  down  here  and  she  has  an  idea  or  two  on  the  subject 
of  this  entente  cordiale  with  Russia  !  " 

*'But  what  can  she  do?  You  are  Violet's  father?  It  is 
you  who  have  the  right  to  decide  whom  your  daughter  is  to 
marry  ? 

*'Yes — in  a  way;  but  then,  my  dear  girl,  you  must 
remember  that  in  this  case  there  are  one  or  two  little  com- 
plications. It's  rather  a  delicate  matter  and  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  your  feelings,  but  Rachel  is  capable  de  tout — like  our 
old  friend  Habakkuk  !  In  the  cause  of  ^  right,' which  would 
mean  the  cause  of  her  own  wishes,  she  wouldn't  hesitate  to 
make  a  scene,  and  though  she  is  such  a  queer  old  stick-in- 
the-mud  she  has  plenty  of  friends  amongst  the  people  who 
count.  She  has  genius  in  the  matter  of  saying  disagreeable 
things  and  she'd  stick  at  nothing  if  she  thought  she  was 
*  doing  right.'  We  don't  want  a  scandal  and  the  only  thing 
to  do,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  is  to  hurry  on  the  marriage,  under 
the  rose,  and  to  give  our  dear  Rachel  a  surprise  !  She  has 
a  sense  of  honour — antiquated  I  grant  you — and  once  Violet 
was  married  to  Platoff  she'd  make  the  best  of  it.  You  see, 
Muriel,  the  plain  truth  is  this.  Violet  isn't  a  fool  and  she 
must  know,  more  or  less,  how  the  land  lies,  but  then  for  her 
own  sake  she  won't  pretend  to  see — unless  she's  forced  to 
do  so.  And  Rachel  would  force  her,  of  that  you  may  be 
certain.  More  than  that  she'd  tackle  Platoff  without  a 
moment's  hesitation  and  just  picture  his  feelings?  And 
picture  your  own  position  ?    Half  Rome  laughing  at  you  and 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  229 


the  other  giving  orders  for  its  doors  to  be  shut  in  your 
face.    I  loathe  such  plain  speaking  but  it's  necessary — just 
now.     It's  a  ticklish  situation  and  we  must  deal  with  it 
carefully." 
*^Yes." 

The  Comtesse  pressed  her  hands  to  her  forehead  as 
though  trying  to  collect  her  thoughts.  She  was  feeling 
utterly  miserable  but  she  recognized  the  wisdom  of  her 
cousin's  advice. 

Her  love  for  Serge  Platoff  was,  had  long  been,  the  one 
great  passion  of  her  life.  It  was  absolutely  genuine — even 
though  it  was  not  altogether  disinterested. 

And  yet  when  she  had  accepted  valuable  presents  from  him 
— even  large  sums  of  money — she  had  done  so  in  order  to 
make  herself  more  attractive — to  him.  He  was  inordinately 
critical  about  women,  and  about  their  dress,  and  it  had 
become  necessary  for  her  to  have  the  means  to  set  off  her 
physical  charms  to  the  greatest  advantage.  She  was  not 
really  beautiful,  so  far  as  features  were  concerned,  but  she 
had  chic  and  this  was  a  quality  he  knew  how  to  appreciate. 

She  had  been  wonderfully  happy  in  her  friendship  with 
the  man  who  seemed  to  her,  of  all  men,  the  most  desirable. 
The  World  had  said  things  but  then  it  was  the  way  of  the 
World  to  gossip,  and  no  one  had  the  right  to  object  to  what 
her  husband  obviously  found  entirely  satisfactory. 

Muriel  de  Brissac  was  not  a  good  woman,  as  the  moralists 
interpret  the  words,  but  she  was  conscious  within  herself  that 
she  had  given  all  that  was  best,  perhaps  even  purest,  in  her 
to  a  friendship  which  had  no  excuse  from  the  moralist's  point 
of  view.  She  had  had  the  great  excuse  of  Love,  and  this  had 
been  more  than  enough  for  her — until  now. 

But  now  everything  was  changed.  She  felt,  for  the  first 
time,  degraded.  She  had  no  fine  code  of  morals,  nevertheless 
she  had  certain  ideas  and  instincts  which  ruled  her  life,  and 
this  thing  that  was  apparently  going  to  happen  seemed  to  her 
very  ugly.    And  yet  she  was  powerless. 


230  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


When  her  cousin,  Weston  Hilliard,  had  spoken  to  her  on 
the  previous  night  of  Platoff's  proposal  she  had  been  stunned. 
A  feeling  of  horror — almost  of  terror — had  taken  possession 
of  her.  With  vehemence  she  had  repudiated  the  idea :  had 
refused  to  consider  it  for  a  single  moment.  But  Weston 
Hilliard  had  spoken  very  quietly  and  clearly.  He  had  not 
insisted  but  he  had  made  several  things  very  plain. 

For  some  reason  the  man  she  loved  wished  to  marry  the 
young  girl  who  was  under  her  charge,  and  she  knew  that  when 
once  the  Russian  set  his  mind  on  the  possession  of  anything 
he  could  not  be  turned  aside. 

But  why — really,  did  he  wish  this  marriage  ? 

Could  it  be  that  he  carried  his  hatred  of  the  painter  so  far 
that  he  was  willing  to  pay  the  price  of  marriage  in  order  to 
wound  him  ?  Was  there  really  anything  in  the  suggestion  cf 
his  wish  for  an  heir? 

Or — and  this  thought  brought  with  it  a  terror  that  would 
not  be  silenced,  could  it  be  that  he  cared  for  the  girl  ?  That 
her  strange  beauty  had  awakened  in  him  the  demon  of  desire? 

The  thought  forced  its  way  back  again  and  again.  She 
thrust  it  aside  with  vehemence  and  denounced  it  as  absurd, 
but  yet — it  crept  in  and  tore  at  the  quivering  doors  of  her 
heart. 

She  had  looked  straight  in  the  eyes  of  her  cousin  as  she 
asked  him  if  he  thought  Platoff  loved  Violet,  and  she  had  found 
in  them  nothing  but  amused  denial  ?  She  strove  with  all  her 
strength  to  persuade  herself  that  the  idea  was  ridiculous. 

Over  and  over  again  she  mentally  reviewed  the  occasions 
on  which  Platoff  had  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  the 
girl — alone.  They  were  not  many — of  that  she  felt  sure. 
Twice — perhaps  three  times — he  might  have  spent  five 
minutes  alone  with  Violet  while  she — the  Comtesse — was 
getting  ready  for  a  drive  or  for  a  walk. 

He  had  always  been  exquisitely  polite  and  considerate  but 
it  was  his  nature  to  be  charming  to  all  feminine  things. 

Her  brain  was  on  fire  and  as  she  stood  and  faced  her 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


cousin  the  pretty  little  salon  seemed  to  turn  round  and  round, 
slowly. 

She  grasped  the  back  of  the  chair  to  steady  herself. 

"You  wish  to  speak  to  Violet — now?" 

Her  voice  sounded  far  away,  and  as  Weston  Hilliard 
crossed  the  room  to  open  the  door  he  looked  at  her  kindly. 

"Yes.  We'd  better  get  it  over.  Piatoff  is  coming  here 
this  afternoon  and  he  expects  to  see  her  then." 

"He  expects  to  see  her  alone?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"My  dear  woman — she's  an  English  girl?" 

"  Yes  !    But  he  is  not  English." 

There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  warned  him  it  would  be 
wise  to  temporize. 

"  Of  course,  it  shall  be  as  you  think  best.  If  you  really 
are  of  opinion  I  ought  to  be  present  at  the  interview — ?" 

"No!  /  shall  be  present.  Violet  is  still  under  my  care, 
and  it  is  I  who  ought  to  take  the  lead  in  this  matter.  I  shall 
see  Serge,  alone,  when  he  calls.  After  that  I  shall  send 
for  her." 

He  bowed  and  held  open  the  door. 

As  she  passed  out,  slowly  and  with  uncertain  steps,  he 
looked  after  her  and  noted  the  graceful  lines  of  her  stately 
figure.  Then,  when  she  had  disappeared  into  a  room  at  the 
end  of  the  passage  he  went  back  into  the  salon  and  abruptly 
shut  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XV 


VIOLET  HILLIARD  was  at  the  studio  in  the  Via  Giulia. 
She  had  made  an  appointment  with  Bering  for  a 
sitting  at  eleven  that  morning  and  then,  at  the  last  moment, 
had  sent  a  message — Impossible  to  come :  will  call  late  in 
the  afternoon." 

Finally,  she  had  arrived  at  the  rather  unusual  hour  of 
three,  and  finding  that  the  painter  was  out  with  Dr  Doyenbert 
had  spent  half  an  hour  in  desultory  conversation  with  his 
sister. 

Jessica  frankly  disliked  her  old  friend's  niece,  and  she 
found  it  almost  impossible  to  discover  subjects  of  mutual 
interest  with  which  to  feed  the  enforced  tete-a-tete.  She  had 
tentatively  introduced  various  topics,  but  each  one  had  been 
paralyzed  by  a  careless,  if  not  scornful,  glance. 

Violet  was  in  a  strange  mood.  Irritable,  highly  nervous, 
wilfully  disdainful.  She  felt  she  wanted  to  hurt  some  one, 
and  had  come  to  the  studio  with  the  intention  of  making 
herself  unpleasant  to  Miles  Bering. 

Since  her  return  from  Florence  she  had  found  herself 
caught  in  a  whirlwind  of  excitement.  Many  things  had 
happened :  things  which  quickened  dreams  and  set  light  to 
vague  ambitions. 

Her  father  had  been,  for  him,  extraordinarily  generous : 
she  had  been  able  to  appease  Cerise.  Muriel  de  Brissac  had 
been  alternately  moody  and  confidential.  Prince  Platoff  had 
asked  her  hand  in  marriage. 

It  seemed  to  the  girl  that  a  new  world  was  throwing  open 
its  golden  gates  before  her.  A  glorious,  brilliant  world,  where 
women  like  Princess  Borizoff,  hated  and  most  bitterly  envied, 
would  have  to  stand  aside  when  she  entered :  would  have  to 

232 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  233 


give  place  to  the  new  star.  She  had  received  her  father's 
announcement  of  the  Russian  Prince's  proposal  in  amazed 
silence.  As  in  a  dream  within  a  dream  she  had  listened  to 
the  advice  of  the  astute  man  of  the  world.  She  had  roused 
Weston  Hilliard's  admiration  by  her  calm  self-possession,  and 
in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm,  born  of  paternal  pride  and  superb 
hope,  he  had  given  her  the  £100  which  had  silenced  Cerise 
and  purchased  a  certain  gold  photograph  frame  incrusted 
with  turquoises,  which  exactly  matched  the  brushes  and 
perfume  bottles  on  her  dressing-table.  Her  cousin  had 
jeered  at  the  ridiculous  short-sightedness  which  had  tempted 
her  to  spend  money  on  a  mere  ornament  just  when  ornaments 
of  all  kinds  were  certain  to  be  showered  on  her,  but  Violet 
had  inherited  a  certain  obstinacy  that  made  her  restive  under 
advice,  and  besides — she  wanted  the  frame,  had  wanted  it  for 
weeks.  It  had  been  her  intention  to  make  it  the  guardian 
of  a  photo  of  Bering,  in  fencing  dress,  but  then  things'' 
had  happened  and — the  frame  stood  empty  on  the  dainty 
table. 

Violet  was  for  a  moment  alone  in  the  big  studio  for 
Jessica  had  gone  out  with  the  avowed  intention  of  seeing 
after  tea." 

She  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and  drew  a  cigarette  from  a 
little  golden  case  hanging  from  a  chain  at  her  wrist.  As  she 
lighted  it  she  leaned  back  against  the  luxurious  cushions  of 
the  arm-chair  and  closed  her  eyes. 

Visions — vivid,  and  differing  widely  one  from  the  other — 
took  shape  in  her  excited  brain.  She  forgot  her  surroundings, 
and  gradually,  unconsciously,  passed  into  the  land  of  waking 
dreams. 

She  thought,  but  only  for  a  brief  moment,  of  the  time 
when  she  had  been  with  her  father — under  his  care.  And  as 
she  thought  she  shuddered  and  her  beautiful  level  brows 
contracted. 

Then  **Aunt  Rachel "  and  '*the  poor  dears"  presented 
themselves  and — so  it  seemed  to  the  dreaming  girl — the 


234  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


paused  and  beckoned  to  her  very  gently.  And  for  a  second 
a  little  line  ran  upwards  from  the  contracted  brows  and  the 
lovely  face  seemed  to  grow  tired  looking.  But  then  a 
triumphant  smile  invaded  the  curves  of  the  crimson  mouth 
and  a  fringe  of  dark  lashes  fell  back  to  reveal  imperious  eyes 
of  liquid  violet,  in  which  fires  of  ambition  burned  bright. 

Platoff!  One  of  the  most  sought  after  men  in  Europe. 
Rich  beyond  the  limits  of  imagination. 

Platoff?  A  prince  who  could  almost  lay  claim  to  royal 
blood  :  the  cousin — at  least  by  marriage — of  the  one  woman 
in  all  the  world  whom  Violet  bitterly  envied. 

Her  colour  rose  slowly  and  she  smiled.  He  admired  her 
fervently — of  that  she  was  sure  :  his  eyes  had  told  the  story — 
more  than  once.  Perhaps  he  really  loved  her — this  man  who 
had  had  many  beautiful  women  at  his  feet  and  who  had — so  it 
was  said — treated  more  than  one  woman  very  cruelly.  Violet 
caught  her  breath  and  though  her  cheeks  were  still  flushed 
the  flood  of  colour  no  longer  indicated  unalloyed  gratification 
for  she  was  thinking  of  her  own  feelings.  Of  the  possibilities 
— nay,  the  certainties — of  married  life.  She  wanted,  with  all 
her  strength,  to  become  possessed  of  the  privileges  which 
must  necessarily  surround  Princess  Platoff,''  but  she  was 
conscious  of  a  vague  horror  of  the  Prince,  when  she  thought 
of  him  as  a  husband. 

And  in  the  silence  of  the  big  studio  she  set  herself  the  task 
of  strangling  this  curious  horror — new-born,  and,  so  she  told 
herself,  absurd. 

A  little  time  before  she  had  seen  the  Russian  with  other 
eyes.  He  had  seemed  quite  delightful.  His  manner  to  her 
had  been  ideal,  with  its  subtle  tinge  of  that  delicious  deference 
which  is  the  most  fitting  homage  that  can  be  offered  at  the 
shrine  of  a  jeune  fille.  He  had  not  changed — at  least  not 
perceptibly.    Had  she  ?    And  why  ? 

And  then  her  wish  to  wound  Bering  made  itself  felt  more 
strongly  than  ever.  His  ideas,  his  thoughts,  his  ambitions, 
all,  all  utterly  impossible  and  ridiculous. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  235 


And  yet  what  had  the  painter  to  do  with  the  matter  ?  He 
had  never  spoken  to  her  of  Platoff.  He  had  not  even 
betrayed  the  fact  that  he  knew  of  her  moonhght  drive  with 
Ivan  Apraxine,  or  of  the  gossip  it  had  aroused.  He  had  been 
silent  on  many  subjects — but  with  a  silence  that  was  very 
eloquent,  and  as  she  thought  of  him  her  mouth  hardened  and 
the  line  between  the  brows  grew  deeper. 

Certainly  it  was  '*a  bother"  about  Muriel,  but  "in  the 
world  things  happened,  even  such  things  as  this,  every 
day.  No  one  thought  anything  about  it.  '*0f  course 
not ! " 

And  yet  Violet  found  herself  thinking — hard,  and  without  a 
trace  of  happiness. 

It  was  a  bother  but  it  was  not  her  fault,  and  people — even 
the  nicest  people — had  convenient  eyesight  and  well-trained 
understanding.  Every  fashionable  woman  of  her  acquaintance 
had  a  friend  "  and  the  friends  were  always  marrying :  nobody 
thought  anything  of  it.  And,  after  all,  it  was  much  better, 
much  "more  right"  that  Platoff  should  marry  and  put  an  end 
to  a  certain  friendship.  Even  from  Aunt  Rachel's  point  of 
view  it  was  "  more  right." 

And  then  again  the  unwelcome  colour  rose  and  the  fire  of 
triumph  flickered  out,  for  she  remembered  a  whispered  con- 
versation, accidentally  overheard,  in  the  smaller  salon  which 
led  off  her  cousin's  room.  Prince  Platoff  was  a  born  autocrat 
but  even  he  at  times  found  it  necessary  to  make  terms— to 
conciliate. 

There  was  a  sound  of  men's  voices  in  the  passage  and 
Violet  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette  hastily.  When  the  studio 
door  opened  to  admit  Doyenbert  and  Bering  she  was  lying 
back  in  her  chair  in  an  insolent  attitude,  with  a  delicate  column 
of  smoke  issuing  from  her  lips,  red  as  ripe  cherries,  and  in  her 
eyes  a  gleam  of  virile  defiance.  Bering  glanced  at  her  search- 
ingly  as  he  took  her  outstretched  hand  and  then  he 
looked  aside.  He  had  seen  enough  to  warn  him  of  danger 
ahead. 


236  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Doyenbert  bowed  over  her  hand  with  his  habitual  gesture 
of  extravagant  homage  and  threw  hinaself  into  a  chair  by  her 
side. 

"You  are  deliciously  modern,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said. 
You  smoke,  you  are  a  notable  bridge  player,  you  rival  La 
belle  Otero  as  a  dancer,  you  are  an  excellent  judge  of 
champagne — and  other  things,  so  I  have  been  told.  You  are 
in  fact  amazing.    La  jeune  fille  de  demain — rCesi-ce  pas  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  he  leaned  his  arm  familiarly  on  her  chair  and 
Bering  frowned.  Violet  resented  the  obvious  familiarity  but 
she  also  resented,  vigorously,  the  frown.  There  was  provoca- 
tion in  her  eyes  and  seduction  in  the  curves  of  her  lips  as  she 
leaned  back  and  looked  at  the  critic. 

''She  does  not  meet  with  your  approval — the j^une  fille  de 
demain  ?  " 

Doyenbert  laughed. 

*'  'Approval '  ?  What  a  cold,  terribly  English,  word  1  We 
'approve'  the  lives  of  the  Saints,  and  the  ultimate  success  of 
the  immortal  individual  who  begins  life  with  a  dollar,  and  the 
unselfish  sister  who  eats  all  the  crusts  and  lights  the  fires 
when  the  maid-of-all-work  is  laid  up  !  We  '  approve '  of 
many  things — at  least  those  of  us  do  who  approve  of  approval 
— but  with  regard  to  the  amazing  jeune  fille  de  demain — ? 
No  !  I  do  not  think  I  '  approve  '  of  her,  but  I  recognize  her 
charm.  She  is  a  young  lady  whom  one  might  strangle  or 
whom  one  might  gratify  by  the  sight  of  a  burning  Rome — 
according  to  temperament  and  temptation  !" 

"  You  think  that  at  the  present  day  there  are  men  who 
would  try  to  burn  Rome  in  order  to  gratify  a  woman  ? 

"'In  the  present  day'?  But  why  not — if  such  ever 
existed?  Do  you  suppose  that  your  sex  has  lost  power  or 
that  ours  has  gained — common  sense?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  petulantly. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  the  men  of  the  present  day — some 
of  them,  are  composed  of  common  sense  and  of  little 
else." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOXJLS  237 


Doyenbert  glanced  up  at  Bering.  His  smile  was  pro- 
vocative. 

"  TouchS?^^  he  said  interrogatively. 

Bering  was  arranging  Violet's  tea  on  a  small  wicker  table, 
near  her  chair  ;  he  seemed  quite  unconcerned. 

"  Tm  not  one  of  those  who  jeer  at  common  sense,''  he  said. 
"  It's  a  useful  quality,  especially  if  it  runs  in  harness  with 
a  certain  amount  of  spirit." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  gone  dow^n  amongst  the  lions  for  that 
fair  lady's  glove,  I  imagine  ? " 

Violet  took  no  pains  to  conceal  a  sneer  and  Boyenbert 
nestled  back  in  his  chair,  well  pleased ;  but  still  the  painter 
showed  no  emotion.  He  towered  over  the  girl  as  he  stood 
by  her  side  and  handed  her  some  foie  gras  sandwiches. 

Oh,  yes— I  rather  think  I  should,"  he  said.  But  I'm 
not  at  all  sure  I  wouldn't  have  given  her  a  sharp  slap  on  the 
cheek  with  it  when  I  returned !  A  woman  has  no  business 
to  do  idiotic  things  like  that." 

You  think  it  idiotic  for  a  woman  to  want  to  feel  quite 
sure  that  a  man  would  risk  his  life  for  her?" 

Absolutely  !    If  she  got  him  to  prove  he  was  willing  to 
risk  life  with  her  there  would  be  some  sense  in  it." 
With  her?" 

Bering  nodded  and  just  then  the  doctor  rose  and  declared 
he  had  not  time  to  take  tea. 

"  I  leave  with  profound  regret,"  he  said,  as  he  saluted  the 
girl.  "  I  believe  that  a  clash  of  verbal  swords  is  imminent 
and  I  should  have  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  encounter,  but  I 
have  an  engagement,  of  some  importance.  You  will  pardon 
me — Mademoiselle?  And  you  will  tell  me,  another  time, 
all  about  the  assaut?^^ 

He  kissed  her  hand  as  though  she  were  a  young  married 
woman  and,  avoiding  Bering's  glance,  passed  swiftly  from  the 
room. 

When  the  painter  had  closed  the  great  carved  door  he 
came  back  and  took  the  seat  just  vacated  by  the  critic. 


238  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


What's  wrong  ?  "  he  asked  softly.  Your  plumage  is 
all  ruffled  up  the  wrong  way  !  " 

Violet  made  a  grimace  and  breathed  out  a  very  perfect 
ring  of  smoke. 

"Aren't  you  shocked?  "  she  asked.  "  You  don't  approve 
of  women  who  smoke — do  you  ?  And  you  don't  approve  of 
girls  who  dance  a  cotillon  at  a  public  ball,  or  of — lots  of  other 
things  ?  Oh,  yes — I  have  heard  of  things  you've  said  and  I 
don't  wonder  they  call  you  *  the  good  young  man  who 
paints.' " 

Do  they?  "  Bering's  laugh  was  pleasant  to  hear  but  there 
was  something  in  his  eyes  that  made  her  feel  uncomfortable. 
"It's  a  terrific  goblin — this  *they'  of  yours  !  And  who  said 
I  didn't  approve  of  women  who  smoke  and  what  are  the  *  lots 
of  other  things'?  I  willingly  grant  you  the  cotillon  at  a 
public  bail,  and  if  you're  greedy  for  more  disapprovals  I  throw 
in  a  moonlight  drive  which  enabled  a  certain  individual  to 
win  a  considerable  bet  !  " 
"Who  told  you  that?'' 

Violet's  cheeks  were  flaming  and  there  was  a  dangerous 
light  in  her  eyes.    Bering  looked  at  her  and  smiled. 
"  *  They  '  talked  about  it — pretty  freely." 
"  You  mean  that  he  did  ?  " 
"  Well,  what  did  you  expect  ?  " 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  No  gentleman  would  speak 
of — such  an  accident." 

"I'm  entirely  of  that  opinion.'' 

The  girl  looked  at  him  angrily  but  the  hot  colour  slowly 
faded  from  her  face.  It  was  impossible  to  resist  Bering's 
manner :  it  gave  an  impression  of  absolute  self-possession ; 
of  calm  that  was  far  removed  from  coldness.  A  beautiful 
actress  who  had  loved  him — in  silence  and  in  vain,  once  said 
of  him,  "  Miles  Bering  reminds  me  of  a  sleeping  volcano : 
one  never  knows  when  the  flames  will  break  out."  And 
Violet  Milliard  also  recognized  that  under  that  exasperating 
self-control  a  vehement,  almost  violent,  nature  existed.  There 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


had  been  moments  when  she  had  taken  delight  in  skating  on 
the  thin  ice.  She  had  once  or  twice  been  very  sweet  to  him 
and  she  remembered  how  quickly  he  had  responded,  and 
how  delightfully.  She  felt,  she  knew,  that  it  was  in  her  power 
to  break  down  that  wall  of  self-control,  and  sometimes  she 
longed  to  do  it.    He  was  so  splendid  but — so  tiresome  ! 

He  would  insist  on  taking  everything  so  seriously.  It  was 
ridiculous  but,  in  a  way,  it  was  fine :  she  had  to  acknowledge 
that. 

And  then — the  simple  truth  was  that  she  was  afraid  of 
him  :  afraid  of  his  influence.  She  had  the  power  and,  very 
often,  the  wish  to  rouse  him  thoroughly,  but  had  she  the  power 
to  resist  him  ? 

If  once  the  sluice-gates  of  his  emotions  were  raised  couid 
she  resist  ?  Was  it  even  likely  that  she  would  wish  to  do  so  ? 
And  what  then  ?    Marry  him  ?    No  ! 

Bering  was  making  a  cigarette  and  he  seemed  engrossed 
in  the  task  of  manipulating  the  tiny  piece  of  paper.  His  head 
was  bent  and  the  girl  could  not  see  his  eyes.  She  watched 
him  furtively  and  as  she  noted  the  firm,  square  chin  and  jaw 
she  said  to  herself  that  it  would  be  madness  to  think  of 
marrying  him.  No  woman,  not  even  the  one  to  whom  he 
gave  his  most  passionate  love,  could  alter  his  character,  or  his 
ideas.  And  from  a  worldly  point  of  view  he  was  quite 
mpossible. 

He  might  make  money  but  he  would  never  keep  it,  or 
spend  it  in  a  way  that  was  worth  while.    Nothing  would 
make  him  "practical,"  and  she  had  a  vague  conviction 
that  he  could,  in  time,  bring  her  to  see  with  his  eyes. 
She  shuddered. 

Bering  looked  up  ;  the  unlighted  cigarette  was  in  his 
left  hand  and  with  his  right  he  reached  forward  for  a  match- 
box. 

"What's  the  matter — really?"  he  asked  softly.  "You're 
a  young  woman  of  moods,  but  to-day — I'm  puzzled  :  I  don't 
quite  understand  you." 


240  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


YouVe  never  understood  me — you  never  will — you  never 
could." 

^*Why?" 

The  single  word  was  spoken  very  quietly  but  there  was  a 
mischievous  light  in  the  dark  eyes.  The  girl's  quick  temper 
awoke. 

Because  we  don't  belong  to  the  same  world.  Because 
where  you  see  black  I  see  white.  Because  you're  ruled  by 
sentiment  and  I'm  ruled  by — " 

Temper?" 

Bering  tangled  his  brown  fingers  in  the  milange  of  paws 
and  tails  fringing  her  long  fur  scarf.  The  mass  of  pure  white 
fox  set  off  to  perfection  her  delicate  complexion  and  she  was 
looking  adorably  pretty  in  black  velvet,  with  a  big  black 
picture  hat  pressed  down  on  her  fair  hair. 

He  gave  the  scarf  a  deft  twist  and  the  fur  brushed  her 
cheek. 

What's  the  matter  ?  You  shan't  have  any  more  tea  until 
you  own  up." 

She  caught  the  scarf  and  threw  the  loose  end  over  her 
shoulder.    She  was  getting  angry. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  *  own  up '  but  if  you 
want  me  to  speak  plainly  I'm  quite  willing  to  do  so.  I  don't 
like  the  portrait  and  I  don't  think  it's  a  bit  like  me.  And  I'm 
sick  to  death  of  people  who  are  always  preaching." 

Bering  looked  at  her  sharply.  Then  he  got  up  and 
walked  towards  a  big  easel  standing  at  the  end  of  the  studio. 
He  turned  it  round  and  wheeled  it  forward.  The  canvas 
clamped  to  it  held  the  portrait  of  a  girl,  standing  half  in 
shadow  by  a  lake  where  lotus  lilies  blossomed  in  profusion. 
She  was  robed  in  purest  white  and  a  haze  of  golden  sunlight 
enveloped  her  figure  and  face.  Her  head  was  raised  and  she 
was  looking  across  the  lake  at  something,  or  someone — her 
lips  curved  in  a  divine  smile  and  love-light  dancing  in  her 
wonderful  eyes.  The  picture  was  unfinished  but  it  already 
gave  an  impression  of  warmth  and  gladness  equal  in  insistency 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


to  the  impression  of  intense  cold  which  all  had  recognized  in 
the  painter's  "  Russia." 

For  a  single  moment  Bering  looked  at  his  work  and  then 
he  deliberately  drew  a  knife  from  his  pocket  and  slashed  the 
canvas  right  across.  Violet  uttered  a  horrified  cry  and  sprang 
forward. 

**What  are  you  doing?"  she  cried.  **The  picture  isn't 
yours.  Aunt  Rachel  ordered  it  and  besides — it  was  lovely ! 
Oh — what  a  shame  to  spoil  it  like  that." 

"At  this  moment  the  picture  is  mine — by  every  right. 
It's  the  child  of  my  brain  and  of  my  hand  and  I  never  at  any 
time  intended  it  to  leave  the  studio.  You  profess  to  be  a 
great  admirer  of  Lucci's  work?  Well — now  you  have  an 
opportunity  of  being  *  taken '  in  a  Cleopatra  pose !  I  will 
make  full  explanations  to  *  Aunt  Rachel.'  " 

"  But  it  was  a  brutal  thing  to  do — and  it  was  so  beautiful." 

"  You  admit  that  ?  " 

Bering  turned  the  easel  with  a  quick  action  of  the  wrist 
and  pushed  it  aside.  The  girl  was  standing  before  him,  her 
eyes  full  of  amazement  and  something  like  terror,  and  as  he 
looked  at  her  he  smiled.  He  pulled  forward  her  chair  and 
motioned  her  to  sit  down  again. 

*'It  has  fulfilled  its  purpose,"  he  said.  It  has  shown 
you — what  shall  I  say — Mirage?  It  was  a  portrait  which 
concerned  two  persons  only — you  and  me.  We've  seen  it  and 
somehow,  I  don't  think  either  of  us  will  forget  it  very 
quickly.  You  don't  like  it — now^  but  some  day?  Who 
knows  ! " 

"  But  I  did  like  it — only  it  wasn't  really  like  me.  It  was 
the  portrait  of  an  angel  and  there's  absolutely  nothing  angehc 
about  me,  I'm  thankful  to  say.  And  then  I  never  could 
understand  what  I  was  supposed  to  be  looking  at.  The 
whole  idea  was  exaggeratedly  sentimental  though  I  admit  the 
effect  was  good." 

"You   understand   perfectly."     He   was    answering  a 

thought  and  a  faint  flush  crept  up  into  the  girl's  face.    "  You 
16 


242  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


have  always  understood  but  you  needn't  be  so  frightened.  I 
may  be  sentimental  and  *  stupid'  but  I'm  not  entirely  lacking 
in  intelligence,  and  I  assure  you  I've  no  intention  of  asking  a 
question  at  a  moment  when  the  answer  is  bound  to  be  'no ' ! 
You've  been  trying  very  hard  lately  to  keep  me  on  *safe 
subjsicts,'  one  of  your  own  phrases  you  will  remember,  but 
really  you  needn't  be  afraid  !  I  shouldn't  value  a  thing  that 
wasn't  given  me  willingly,  and  you  know  I  always  warned  you 
that  I'm  something  of  a  clairvoyant?''^ 

Violet  caught  her  breath.  Her  hands  were  so  tightly 
clasped  together  that  her  slender  fingers  ached.  He  was 
exasperating  ! 

She  wanted  to  say  something  crushing  :  something  that 
would  make  him  realize  that  she  did  not  care — for  the  picture, 
or  for  its  creator  and  destroyer ! 

She  had  come  to  the  studio  with  the  express  intention  of 
being  disagreeable  to  him  and — should  she  find  opportunity, 
and  courage,  of  bringing  up  the  subject  of  Prince  Platoff. 
She  was  not  prepared  to  say  tiiat  she  was  actually  engaged  to 
the  Russian :  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  not^  for  she  had 
asked  for  a  few  days  in  which  to  consider  the  situation,  and 
her  father  had  agreed,  well  pleased  that  she  should  seem  to 
hesitate.  He  knew  his  suggested  son  in-law  very  well  and 
was  aware  that  he,  like  others  of  his  sex,  did  not  specially 
value  fruit  which  was  ready  to  drop  into  his  mouth. 

Violet  had  persuaded  herself  that  it  would  be  a  triumph 
to  let  the  painter  know  she  was  about  to  become  a  Princess, 
but  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  she  dreaded  his  reception  of 
the  news.  She  found  it  impossible  to  conceal  the  certainty 
that  he  would  regard  the  situation  with  contempt  and 
loathing. 

Miles  Bering  was  exasperating  ! 

She  told  herself  that  for  the  hundredth  time.  His  ideas 
were  ridii  ulous  and  out-of-date.  And  yet  it  was  undeniable 
that  he  had  considerable  influence — and  in  unexpected 
quarters.    People  in  her  world  were  fond  of  calling  him  a 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


charlatan  and  a  *^a  goody-goody  young  man,"  but  it  was 
always  behind  his  back.  Women  did  not  care  to  face  the 
flash  of  his  eyes  just  as  men  avoided  the  flash  of  his  sword. 
He  was  exasperating  but  he  was  indomitable  and  in  no 
respect  was  he  small. 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  masterful,  adoring  eyes  and 
she  hasteaed  to  break  the  oppressive  silence. 

don't  know  in  the  least  what  you  mean,"  she  said 
insolently,  but  if  you  can  explain  satisfactorily  to  my  aunt 
it's  all  right.  The  picture,  being  your  work,  was  of  course 
very  beautiful,  but  I  think  a  portrait  ought  to  resemble  the 
person  who  sat  for  it  and  certainly  I  do  not  look  like  an 
angel — in  love." 

"  Ah —  I  thought  you  understood  !  No,  at  this  moment  you 
don't  resemble  an  angel  at  all,  in  love  or  out.  You're  a  very 
perfectly  dressed  society  girl  who  likes  to  write  the  word 
WORLD  in  capitals  and  who  persuades  herself  that  she 
worships  the  Almighty  Dollar  !  " 

But  I  do  worship  it.  At  least  I  know  it's  the  only  thing 
worth  bothering  about  in  this  life." 

It  amuses  you  to  think  you  *  know  '  that !  " 

"  No.  It's  quite  true.  Yes — I  assure  you,"  in  answer  to 
his  decided  shake  of  the  head,  "  I  know  myself  and  you  don't 
know  me  at  all.  If  one  hasn't  money  and  position  life  isn't 
worth  living — at  least  that's  my  opinion.  You  condemn 
such  an  idea  just  as  you  condemn  my  World  and  everything 
connected  with  it,  but  that's  because  you're  a  faddist.  You 
make  a  god  of  poverty  and  another  of  self-sacrifice  just  as  we 
— so  you  say — make  a  god  of  riches." 

*  We '  ?  And  why  '  condemn '  ?  Must  I  necessarily 
*  condemn '  because  I  refuse  to  imitate  ?  " 

"Of  course  not — 'necessarily,'  but  you  do — all  the 
same." 

**What?" 

"Condemn." 

Bering  shook  his  head. 


244  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


No  !  But  I  admit  I  think  it  stupid  to  jeer  at  everything 
that  makes  for  good.  Your  beloved  world  thinks  itself  a 
very  fine  and  most  exotic  creation,  but  one  doesn't  need  a 
magnifying  glass  to  see  that  it's  largely  made  up  of  banalities 
and  incomprehensible  stupidities.  Why,  your  much-vaunted 
Worldlings  are,  the  majority  of  them,  simply  patient  obedient 
sheep  who  trot  this  way  and  that  when  the  bell  tinkles ;  and 
who  manipulates  the  bell?  The  demon  of  ennui  who  can 
find  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  make  you  all  rush,  helter- 
skelter  up  hill  and  down  dale  to  the  tune  of  *  Who  wouldn't 
be  a  go-to-the-devil-buster ! '  Your  world  professes  to  find 
the  King  of  Evil  subtle  and  essentially  smart,  and  the  King 
of  Helpfulness,  tiresome  and  out-of-date,  but  let  me  assure 
you  that  your  World's  boon  companion,  the  Devil,  is  a  creature 
of  considerable  intelligence  who  wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to 
fork  your  worldUngs  into  his  fire :  he  doesn't  care  for  tame 
sport !  It's  rather  the  fashion,  in  certain  circles,  to  think 
it  a  fine  thing  to  *  go  to  the  devil,'  but  it's  not  all  those  who 
*  go '  who  will  find  themselves  appreciated  by  the  wily  old 
serpent,  who  is  so  curiously  misunderstood.  Why,  this 
personage  who  tempts  you  with  showers  of  money  and  chains 
of  diamonds  and  titles  and  heaven  knows  what  besides  was 
once  an  angel — remember  that.  He  once  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  pit  himself  against  his  Creator,  and  do  you  suppose 
that  he  became  an  imbecile  on  being  cast  out  ?  Not  at  all ! 
Believe  me  he  knows  very  well  how  to  take  your  World  and 
your  Worldlings  at  a  just  valuation,  and  if  he  spoke  the  truth 
he'd  admit  that  it's  a  finer  feather  in  his  cap  to  get  the  better 
of  a  single  Saint  than  of  five  hundred  stupid  *  sinners,'  who 
haven't  even  enough  sense  to  sin  intelligently." 

The  words  rushed  out  headlong  and  Bering  was  breath- 
less.   As  he  stopped  short  he  broke  into  laughter. 

**You  think  I'm  mad?"  he  asked  as  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  looked  at  the  girl's  amazed  face. 

No — not  exactly,  but  certainly  you   have  the  most 
extraordinary  ideas." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


245 


**No.  It's  the  ideas  of  your  World  that  are  extraordinary. 
Nature  never  intended  us  to  destroy  the  germs  of  individuality 
and  remain  satisfied  to  copy  the  parrot  tribe.  Each  one 
of  us  differs,  the  one  from  the  other,  as  much  in  nature 
as  in  face,  and  yet  men  and  women  are  content,  even  proud, 
to  think  in  droves  and  to  act  in  droves.  They  make  money 
that  they  may  have  more  than  their  fellows  and  spend  it 
that  they  may  spend  more  than  their  fellows.  The  majority 
of  women  dress  to  out-dress  other  women,  and  entertain 
because  they  want  to  go  one  better  than  the  people  who 
have  entertained  them.  Women  marry  for  *  position'  and 
bring  up  their  children  to  worship  '  position  ' :  for  *  position  ' 
men  and  women  of  intelligence  and,  au  fond^  fine  character 
scheme  and  lie  and  crawl  and  bluster.  And  what  is 
*  position'  after  all?  An  admirable  prize  for  a  decently 
contested  race,  but  as  a  god  ?  Don't  you  see  that  *  position  ' 
must  always  be  comparative?  You  have  won  your  little 
god  by  means  which,  probably,  wouldn't  bear  the  light 
of  day,  but  when  you  stick  him  on  a  pedestal  and  prepare 
to  worship  him  you  find  that  your  next-door  neighbour  has 
a  higher  pedestal  and  a  bigger  god  and  then — what's  the 
good !  So  far  as  I'm  personally  concerned  I  shouldn't  bother 
a  bit  about  the  apes  and  parrots  of  the  World  if  only  they 
v^ould  stay  on  their  perches  and  in  their  gilded  cages  and 
cease  to  jeer  at  and  molest  individuals  who  are  of  opinion 
that  intelligence  is  worthy  of  praise.  Be  a  parrot  if  you 
like  but  do  realize  that  it's  a  finer  thing  to  initiate  than  to 
imitate,  and  that  it's  much  easier  to  screech  *  you're  a  goody- 
goody — ha — ha'  from  a  perch  than  to  take  time  to  help 
even  one  lame  dog  over  a  stile." 

Violet's  cheeks  flushed.  He  had  the  power  to  make 
her  remember,  even  to  regret,  the  "poor  dears." 

She  rose  quickly. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said.  **I  have  an  appointment — with 
Muriel." 

Bering  looked  down  at  her.    He  felt  strongly  tempted 


246  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


to  take  risks,  to  throw  wisdom  to  the  winds  and  to  speak 
out  all  that  was  in  his  heart.  He  knew  it  was  not  an 
auspicious  moment — that  the  girl  was  in  a  wayward  mood 
and  that  something,  he  knew  not  what,  had  ruffled  her 
temper,  but  then — she  was  so  lovable  :  so  perfectly  exquisite  ! 
And  he  knew — he  had  always  known,  it  was  in  his  power 
to  take  possession  of  her  life.  She  fancied  she  was  wedded 
to  the  World  and  she  imagined  he  would  not  allow  her 
to  enjoy  its  delights,  but  nevertheless — and  even  without 
meeting  her  half-way  —  he  had  the  power  to  dominate 
her. 

There  was  in  Bering  a  curiously  perverse  spirit  which 
often  made  him  tempt  people  to  misunderstand  him.  Even 
with  those  he  loved  best  he  was  fond  of  playing  tricks.  He 
was  absolutely  convinced  that  Violet  Hilliard  loved  him 
but  he  saw  clearly  that  her  mind  was  "  wobbly  "  as  to  his 
possibilities  and  he  loved  to  play  with  her. 

But  as  they  stood  together  in  the  darkening  studio, 
quite  alone,  his  heart  throbbed  violently  and  a  wave  of 
delicious  emotion  flooded  his  whole  being.  He  caught  her 
hands  and  vehement  words  were  beating  against  the 
door  of  his  lips  when  she  looked  up  and  abruptly  drew 
back. 

"  Please  don't  keep  me,"  she  said  petulantly.  "  I  really 
have  an  important  engagement.  I'm  going  with  Muriel 
to  see  some  wonderful  old  porcelain  belonging  to  Comte 
Apraxine." 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed  Bering  cursed 
his  own  folly.  He  also  was  wobbly"!  He  could  neither 
make  up  his  mind  to  snatch  his  prize  and  hold  it  against 
all  comers  or — to  wait  until  it  was  ready  to  come  to  him. 
He  was  conscious  of  the  roughness  with  which  he  grasped 
the  delicate  little  hands  but  he  did  not  pause  to  collect 
himself. 

You're  going  to  his  hotel?  " 

*^  I  suppose  so." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  247 


Violet  was  frightened  and  her  voice  trembled.  Again 
there  was  silence  and  then  Bering  spoke  quite 
calmly. 

*'  Have  you  yet  paid  toll  to  Trevi  ? "  he  asked  in- 
consequently.  "No?  Well — you  mustn't  put  it  off  any 
longer.  I'll  drive  you  there  now  and  I  promise  to  have  you 
back  at  the  Bristol  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner." 
"But  I  told  you  I  had  promised — Muriel?'* 
"Yes,  but  she  can  manage  very  well  without 
you." 

"But  if  we're  seen?  You  know  you  said — one  ought 
not  to  drive  alone  with  a  man  after  dark?" 

"  This  is  before  dark  and  I  am  not  Apraxine." 

He  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  out.  Silence 
was  between  them  as  they  walked  down  the  wide  corridor 
and  descended  the  marble  steps  which  led  to  the 
street. 

The  fountains  of  Rome  play  an  important  r61e  in  the 
daily  life  of  the  Eternal  City.  Some  are  very  beautiful 
and  situated  in  romantic  surroundings.  Some  are  chiefly 
useful,  as  the  big  fountain  outside  the  Porta  Maggiore 
which  is  daily  used  as  a  wash-tub  by  the  women  of  the 
quarter.  Amongst  the  remarkable  monuments  of  Rome 
may  be  counted  the  exquisite  Fountain  of  the  Tortoises 
by  the  Palazzo  Mattel,  and  scarcely  less  beautiful  is  the 
Fountain  of  the  Aqua  Felice  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre. 
But  to  all  foreigners  the  Fontana  di  Trevi,  in  the  Quirinale 
quarter,  is  a  very  special  point  of  interest.  The  great 
fountain  itself  is  sufficiently  imposing  and  a  fine  specimen 
of  Baroque  work,  but  the  interest  attached  to  Trevi  is 
personal  —  to  each  one  who  lingers  beside  its  majestic 
basin. 

Those  who  pay  toll  to  Trevi's  flowing  waters  mus( 
return  to  Rome — and  before  very  long ! 

The  fountain  is  like  a  woman  of  moods.    Sometimes — 


248  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


in  the  glare  of  noonday — it  seems  arrogant  and  aggressive : 
sometimes — when  the  piazza  is  deserted — it  seems  mysterious 
and  strangely  aloof.  In  the  silence  of  night,  with  the 
moon  lamp  overhead,  it  is  simply  glorious:  the  "virgin 
waters  "  whisper  of  past  glories  and  of  possibilities — for  the 
future. 

Bering  knew  and  loved  Trevi  in  all  its  phases  but 
he  was  not  thinking  of  its  many  fascinations  when  he 
suggested  to  Violet  Hilliard  that  they  should  visit  it. 

Trevi  had  rushed  to  his  lips  at  a  moment  when  he 
was  searching  an  excuse  to  detain  her  and  he  accepted 
the  suggestion. 

The  shadows  of  twilight  were  creeping  in  when  they 
reached  the  Palazzo  Poli  and,  for  the  moment,  the  fountain 
was  deserted :  as  they  stood  together  by  the  lake  of  quivering 
waters  they  seemed  alone. 

Violet's  mood  had  changed  for  the  worse.  Petulance 
had  given  place  to  satire  and  more  than  once,  during  the 
drive,  she  had  been  positively  rude. 

She  was  angry — with  herself,  with  Bering,  with  the  whole 
situation.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  do  a  certain  thing 
and  now — it  had  become  more  than  ever  difficult.  She  told 
herself  again  and  again  that  all  the  world  would  envy  her 
when  they  heard  of  her  engagement  to  Prince  Platoff,  but  she 
knew  that  one  man  would  despise  her. 

And  that  one  man  counted.  It  made  her  furious  to 
realize  how  much  he  counted. 

She  had  been  rude  to  him,  and  with  intention.  She  had 
tried  by  every  means  in  her  power  to  make  him  angry  but  she 
had  only  succeeded  in  making  him  silent. 

Then  as  they  stood  and  looked  at  the  dancing  waters  she 
drew  a  gold  coin  from  a  little  purse  hanging  from  her  wrist  and 
held  it  in  her  fingers. 

"This  ought  to  bring  me  luck,"  she  said  meaningly,  "I 
won  it  last  night  at  bridge — from  Prince  Platoff." 
"Platoff?" 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"Yes.  Comte  Apraxine  and  I  were  playing  against 
Muriel  and  Serge  Platoff — and  we  won  quite  a  considerable 
sum.'' 

"Where?'' 

There  was  something  in  the  stern  voice  that  made  the  girl 
tremble  but  she  was  determined  to  go  on. 

"  At  the  Villa  Platoff.    Muriel  and  I  dined  there." 
"And  your  father?  " 

"No!"  She  looked  up  in  his  face  and  smiled.  "Are 
you  shocked  again  ?  Don't  you  consider  Madame  de  Brissac 
sufficient  chaperon  for  me  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

Thoughts,  violent,  dark,  crowded  through  his  brain. 
What  was  she — really,  this  girl  he  so  passionately  adored? 
Was  she  ignorant  of  what  was  going  on  round  her — or  was 
she  indifferent?  Was  she  merely  trying  to  tease  him  or — was 
there  something  behind  it  all? 

His  face  was  set  and  stern.    Then  it  cleared — slowly. 

"  I  don't  think  we'll  tempt  Trevi  with  Russian  gold,  but  it 
may  as  well  do  some  good."  He  turned  and  spoke  a  word  or 
two  in  soft  Italian  to  an  old  woman  who  had  paused  near 
them  and  who  was  holding  out  a  withered  hand.  "Give  it 
to  her,"  he  said  authoritatively  and  the  girl  obeyed.  He 
smiled  as  he  gave  her  another  coin  and  at  the  same  time 
bent  down  and  scooped  up  some  of  the  water  in  the  palm  of 
his  right  hand.  "Drink,"  he  said,  "and  then  drop  in  the 
coin  and  wish — to  come  back  to  Rome,  with  me." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  so  low  that  she  divined 
rather  than  heard  them  but  again  she  obeyed.  A  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling  had  taken  possession  of  her  and  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  bent  over  the  ever-flowing 
waters. 

"  Now  I'll  take  you  back  to  the  Bristol,  but  to-morrow  I 
must  see  ou.    What  time — and  where  ?  " 

"  Oh— I  don't  know.  The  studio,  I  think— but  I  don't 
know  when — exactly." 


250  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  I  shall  wait  for  you — all  day.'' 

She  pulled  her  furs  up  about  her  face  and  bent  her  head 
so  that  he  could  see  nothing  but  her  hat.  On  the  night  of 
the  morrow  there  was  to  be  a  ball  at  the  Villa  Platoff  and — 
her  engagement  was  to  be  announced. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


A FEW  days  after  the  private  view'*  at  Bering's  studio 
Clio  Waring  received  a  curt  note  from  Underwood  :  a 
note  which  puzzled  her  a  Httle  and  perturbed  her  a  great 
deal. 

It  simply  contained  the  words — evidently  written  in  great 
haste — Am  summoned  to  America  :  must  see  you  this  after- 
noon :  shall  call  at  five."  It  read  like  a  telegram.  And  it 
meant  ? 

Clio  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  as  to  its  meaning. 

The  moment,  carefully  deferred,  had  come  at  last.  The 
decision  had  to  be  made — and  within  a  short  quarter  of  an 
hour,  for  she  had  been  out  when  the  note  arrived. 

With  a  nervous  gesture  of  impatience  she  took  off  her  hat 
and  threw  it  aside  ;  then,  almost  unconsciously,  she  rearranged 
the  roses  with  which  the  pretty  room  seemed  almost  filled. 
All  the  time  she  was  thinking  hard. 

She  loved  him — this  great  strong  man  who  seemed  to  con- 
sider her  still  a  child  and  who  was  prepared  to  spoil  her  to  her 
heart's  content :  and  Clio  loved  to  be  spoiled  and  made  much 
of.  Certainly  she  loved  him  and  it  now  seemed  impossible  to 
picture  her  life  without  him,  but  old  memories  had  crept  in, 
bringing  her  messages — from  the  dead.  And  the  memories 
defied  her  when  she  wished  to  stifle  their  small  voices. 

She  left  the  roses,  walked  quickly  to  the  windows  and 
drew  across  the  curtains  to  partly  shut  out  the  blaze  of  light 
from  a  sun  already  preparing  to  sink  into  the  West.  Then 
she  sat  down  on  a  big  square  sofa  and  pushed  back  her  hair 
from  her  forehead  :  she  felt  feverishly  excited. 

Her  life  had  been  an  eventful  one,  in  many  ways  :  she  had 
had  a  great  deal  of  amusement  and  a  certain  amount  of  un- 

251 


252  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


happiness.  She  had  known  disappointment  and  disillusion. 
When  she  looked  back  on  her  married  life  it  seemed  to  her 
now,  a  nightmare :  and  yet  she  had  really  cared  for  "  poor  old 
Charlie" — only,  not  as  a  husband.  He  had  been  good- 
natured  and  very  amusing — when  he  was  all  right;  he  had 
been  fond  of  her  and  generous  to  a  fault. 

But  it  seemed  to  Clio  that  she  had  never  really  been 
married,  and  she  had  come  to  see  that  a  happy  marriage  was 
something  to  be  desired — most  fervently. 

And  she  had  found  her  other  self"!  She  was  quite 
certain  that  never  again,  in  all  her  life,  would  she  encounter 
a  man  so  capable  of  making  her  blissfully  happy  :  *'Jim'' — 
already  in  her  thoughts  he  was  ^'/im^^ — was  delightful. 

Happiness  was  within  her  grasp  and  she  dared  not  accept 
it.  She  knew,  even  while  resolutely  fighting  the  sleepless 
memories,  that  she  must  let  it  slip  by.  And  the  knowledge 
was  cruel. 

She  rose  abruptly,  went  to  a  long  mirror  set  in  a  panel  of 
the  dull  blue  wall,  and  arranged  her  hair.  And  while  she 
was  thus  standing  the  door  opened  and  Underwood  entered. 

As  he  came  forward  Clio  recognized  a  change  in  his  face. 
A  new  and  baffling  light  shone  in  his  deep-set  eyes  and  illu- 
mined every  feature.  He  looked  nervous — almost  agitated — 
and  Clio  drew  back;  frightened,  she  knew  not  why.  Under- 
wood had  always  had  a  strong  influence  over  her  and  she  had, 
from  the  first,  found  it  hard  to  resist  the  command  of  his 
steadfast  eyes.  He  had  come  to  her  now  for  her  decision  " 
— of  that  she  felt  certain,  and  the  decision  must  be  given 
while  she  had  courage.  Before  the  flame  of  love  he  had  set 
alight  within  her  rushed  upward  and  blinded  her  clear  vision 
with  its  brilliancy. 

She  took  no  notice  of  his  outstretched  hand  but  signed  to 
him  to  sit  down. 

"You  told  me  to  think  it  all  over  carefully,"  she  said 
breathlessly,  "and  I  have  done  it.    And — it's  impossible, 
couldn't  do  it — it  would  break  my  father's  heart  and  I  am 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  253 


sure  he  would  know — so  he  often  used  to  say  he  would  watch 
over  me  when  he  passed  away — when  he  left  me." 

Underwood  started  to  speak  eagerly,  and  then,  with 
obvious  difficulty,  restrained  himself.  He  had  suddenly 
grown  strangely  white.  He  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a 
second  or  two.    Then  he  said  very  gently : 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  thoughts — all  of  them.  I  should 
like,  beyond  anything  in  the  world,  to  understand  them." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  came  and  sat  by  her  side  on 
the  sofa.  His  manner  was  exquisitely  gentle.  Almost,  so  it 
seemed  to  the  unnerved  woman,  reverent.  He  laid  one  of 
his  strong  hands  on  hers  which  were  clasped  together  on 
her  lap. 

"Tell  me  everything,"  he  said  softly. 

Clio  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and,  one  by  one,  great  tears 
rested  on  the  long  lashes  and  then  stole  down  the  dimpled 
cheeks. 

"  I  love  you  very  much — but  I  cannot  marry  you  like 
that.  I  should  never  be  able  to  get  over  the  idea  that  my 
father  knew  and  that  it  hurt  him.  He  was  such  a  dear — and 
all  his  ideas  were  so  lovely  and  so  unworldly,  and — he  held 
to  them,  right  to  the  very  end.  He  would  have  thought  it 
dreadful — worse  than  dreadful,  for  he  did  not  believe  in 
divorce.  He  believed  that  nothing  but  death  could  separate 
people  who  had  once  been  married,  and — he  loved  me  so 
dearly — he  was  so  proud  of  me.  If  I  consented  to  that  I 
should  be  afraid  to  meet  him  again,  and  I  do  believe  that 
we  shall  see  them  again,  those  dear  ones  who  have  gone 
away.  Oh — I  have  thought  and  thought,  and  tried  to  see 
things  differently,  but  I  cannot.  All  the  lovely  things  dear 
old  Pappy  used  to  say  to  me  keep  coming  back  and  making 
it  impossible.  I  have  put  it  off  as  long  as  I  could — telling 
you  this,  because  it  will  be  so  lonely  without  you — and 
because  I'm  a  coward.  And  now  I've  said  it,  and  you  will 
go  away — for  always  ?  You  will  not  come  back  ?  No  !  " 
She  spoke  passionately,  in  answer  to  a  confused  gesture  from 


254  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


the  man.  "  You  must  not  come  back — at  least,  not  to  me. 
I  couldn't  bear  it." 

For  answer  he  drew  from  his  breast  pocket  a  crushed 
paper — a  cablegram — and  spread  it  out  before  her. 
It  reached  me  an  hour  ago,"  he  said. 

Clio  brushed  aside  her  tears  and  stared  at  the  paper. 
The  words  seemed  to  dance  before  her  eyes,  but  gradually 
they  became  clear. 

'^Return  at  once,  your  wife  is  dying." 

She  read  the  words  again  and  again.  Then  she  looked  at 
him  with  bitter  reproach  in  her  eyes. 

'*You  knew  this,  and  you  allowed  me  to  speak — like 
that?" 

**Yes!  You  must  forgive  me  for  I  could  not  help  it. 
God  is  my  witness  that  I  could  not  help  it.  I  had  waited  so 
long — so  patiently,  just  to  hear  you  say  you  loved  me." 

He  got  up  as  he  spoke  and  walked  to  the  window:  he 
was  shaken  with  emotion,  and  CHo's  momentary  anger  fled. 
She  went  to  his  side  and  touched  his  arm  softly, 

don't  regret  it.    I  am — glad  you  know  the  truth — at 
last.    But  tell  me  of  yourself?    You  are  leaving — at  once?" 

^*This  evening.    Within  an  hour." 

His  eyes  were  devouring  her  uplifted  face,  and  he  was 
unconscious  of  the  vehemence  with  which  he  had  grasped 
her  hands. 

^^You  remain  here — in  Rome — all  the  winter?" 
She  shook  her  head. 

**Only  until  Christmas.    Then  I  go  to  Paris.    I  shall 
stay  at  the  Continental." 
He  bent  his  head. 

**You  are  not  angry  with  me?  You  forgive  me  — 
truly  ?  " 

Their  eyes  met,  and  Underwood  read  in  the  face  of  the 
woman  he  adored  an  agony  of  entreaty.  In  silence  she  was 
begging  for  mercy — in  an  hour  of  weakness.  He  smiled 
faintly,  and  pressed  her  hands  before  letting  them  go. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


255 


I  want  you  to  give  me  something,"  he  said.  little 
bottle  of  the  perfume  you  always  use." 
Perfume!" 
"Yes." 

"  But  it's  nothing  special — just  a  mix — and  what  in  the 
world  do  you  want  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

Clio  had  forgotten  everything  in  her  amazement. 
Underwood  laughed  a  Httle. 

"  Of  course,  it  is  a  *  mix.'  Do  you  imagine  that  I  take 
you  for  a  woman  who  would  make  her  own  out  of  a 
catalogued  perfume  ?  And  why  should  I  not  want  to  spray 
my  person?  Do  you  suppose  that  the  female  sex  controls 
the  scent  market  ? " 

CHo  fell  in  with  his  mood. 

"Of  course — if  you  really  want  it?  But  men  are  better 
without  perfumes,  and  then — you  ?    It  seems  ridiculous." 

"I  shall  be  better  with  it.  I  have  got  used  to  it — it 
seems  sort  of  homey." 

"  Yes  ?    Well— ril  fetch  some." 

When  she  returned  to  the  room  Underwood  was  standing 
by  a  small  table  holding  an  empty  photograph  frame  in 
his  hand. 

"  It's  not  up  to  much  but  it  is  you.    I'll  take  it  with  me." 
"  You  wish  to  do  that?" 
He  nodded. 

"Yes.  This  is  no  ordinary  case="  Then,  as  the  colour 
crept  up  into  her  face,  he  added  hastily,  "I  haven't  seen 
Tuke  lately  ?    Where  is  he  ?  " 

Since  you  are  well  up  in  Bible  stories  I  refer  you  to 
Miles  Dering's  *  Genesis — something  and  something ' !  " 

"  So  you  have  refused  him  ?  " 

She  made  no  reply. 

Underwood  looked  round  the  familiar  room  slowly  as 
though  taking  in  all  its  details.  Then  he  allowed  his  e)es  to 
rest  on  the  face  of  the  one  woman  who  counted — for  him. 
How  deliciously  pretty  she  was?    How  utterly  desirable. 


256  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


He  felt  that  he  must  leave  her  at  once  if  he  wanted  to  keep 
to  a  certain  resolution  made  as  he  was  approaching  the  hotel. 
He  had  not  loved  his  wife — for  years  she  had  been  almost  a 
stranger  to  him :  nevertheless,  she  was  his  wife,  and — so  far 
as  he  knew — she  was  still  alive.  To  leave  without  one  real 
caress  was  cruelly  hard,  but — it  must  be  done. 

**  I  must  go  now,"  he  said  abruptly,  will  try  to  see 
Dering  on  my  way  back  to  the  hotel — if  he  should  chance  to 
be  in." 

"  You  are  going — now  ?  " 

**Yes.  And  you  must  not  come  to  the  station.  I  wish 
to  carry  with  me  a  vision  of  you — here :  in  the  midst  of  the 
roses." 

"You'll  take  great  care  of  yourself?" 
Yes  !  And  you  !  How  can  I  be  sure  that  you  will  not 
run  all  sorts  of  outrageous  risks — driving  out  at  night  without 
sufficient  wraps  and  living  on  pastry  cakes  and  candies  ?  I 
think  I  must  ask  Dering  to  keep  an  eye  on  you.  He's  a  big 
fellow  and  you  hold  him  in  awe — just  a  little  !  " 

Poor  Miles — 1  wonder  how  things  will  end  for  him  ? 
Very  badly,  I  fear.'' 

**You  mean  about  the  girl — Miss  Hilliard?'' 

Clio  made  a  gesture  of  angry  assent. 

"  She  will  marry  Platoff." 
I  don't  think  so.    Dering  believes  so  firmly  in  his  own 
lucky  star  that  he  has  made  me  believe  in  it  too.  Things 
will  come  right  for  him — you  will  see." 

"  Never !  The  girl  is  a  solid  mass  of  vanity  and — I 
really  believe  it,  greed.  She  will  marry  Prince  Platoff  for 
the  position  he  can  give  her." 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  Clio  was  again  alone,  she  flung 
herself  down  on  the  broad  sofa  and  covered  her  burning 
face  in  her  hands. 

She  was  trying  not  to  feel  disgracefully  happy  ! 

It  seemed  horrible — it  actually  was  horrible,  to  rejoice 
over  such  a  happening,  but  she  was  very  human — and  very 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  257 


sincerely  in  love.  How  beautiful  was  the  world  and  how 
entrancing  was  life — generally  !  And  then  she  remembered 
she  had  promised  to  spend  the  evening  with  her  friend 
Bianca  Delia  Rocca  and  she  was  pleased.  Bianca  was  always 
sympathetic  and — she  cherished  a  sincere  admiration  for 
James  Underwood. 


17 


CHAPTER  XVII 


IT  turned  out  that  Dr  Doyenbert  was  the  only  person  at 
the  station  to  give  Underwood  a  send-off.  Miles 
Dering  was  out  when  the  American  called  at  the  studio  and 
no  one  knew  where  he  was.  Underwood  was  sorry  to  have 
missed  him  but,  after  all,  he  had  only  wanted  to  say  au  revoir. 

He  chanced  on  the  doctor,  in  the  Piazza  Farnese,  when 
turning  out  of  the  Via  Giulia,  and  the  latter  volunteered  to 
see  him  off  in  the  train. 

The  two  men  were  strangely  silent  during  that  last  half- 
hour.  Underwood  was  thoughtful  and  obviously  unnerved  : 
Doyenbert  was  in  a  sullen,  savage  temper. 

They  did  not  exchange  more  than  half  a  dozen  words  on 
the  way  to  the  station,  but  when  Underwood  was  settled  down 
in  the  railway  carriage  the  doctor  looked  at  him  sharply. 
You  are  returning — before  long." 
"Not  here.    I   shall  be  in   Paris  immediately  after 
Christmas.'' 

**Yes?  Then  we  shall  meet.  I  suppose,  like  all  good 
Americans,  the  Express  Office  is  your  home  address  in 
Paris  ?  " 

The  other  nodded,  smiling  slightly. 

"Well — I  wish  you  a  good  voyage  and  I  shall  be  glad  to 
see  you  happy — when  you  return." 

"I  am  quite  sure  you  mean  that!  And — Doyenbert, 
shall  you  be  seeing  Dering  within  the  next  day  or  two  ?  If 
so  will  you  tell  him  I  tried  to  find  him  before  I  left  and  that 
I  send  him  the  best  of  good  wishes  ?  " 

Doyenbert's  brow  darkened. 

"  I  shall  see  him  to-night.  I  am  going  to  the  studio 
after  a  dinner-party.    Yes,  I  will  give  him  your  messages,  but 

258 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  259 


I  am  pretty  sure  good  wishes  will  not  do  him  much  good 
now.    He  is  in  for  a  rough  time." 
"  You  mean— that  girl  ?  " 

A  muttered  oath  passed  the  critic's  compressed  lips. 

"Yes.    She  is  going  to  marry  Platoff.'' 

"But  you  cannot  believe  that?  It  is  impossible.  Even 
if  Platoff  wishes  it,  and  the  girl  is  willing,  Madame  de  Brissac 
would  never  consent." 

"You  think  not?  You  fail  to  recognize  the  wheels 
within  the  wheels  ?  The  beast  is  rich.  Rich  enough  to  buy 
Miss  Hilliard's  consent  and  Madame's  acquiescence." 

"  But  the  idea  is  horrible  !  And  how  can  Bering  be  so 
blind  ?  " 

"  He  is  blind  because  he  is  in  love  and  because  he  is  the 
most  obstinate  beggar  on  earth :  almost  as  obstinate  as  Jack 
Fitz  used  to  be.  He  believes  himself  to  be  an  extraordinary 
judge  of  character,  and  I  grant  you  he  has  proved  himself 
right  a  good  many  times,  but  now  comes  the  debacle.  The 
whole  affair  is  disgusting,  and  if  one  wanted  further  proof  of 
the  tricks  played  by  that  old  vaurien,  Nature,  one  has  it  in 
the  knowledge  that  such  a  man  as  Miles  Bering  could  fall  in 
love  with  Weston  Hilliard's  daughter :  with  the  cousin  of 
such  a  woman  as  Madame  de  Brissac — with  a  jeune  fille  who 
finds  it  natural  to  marry  the  man  who  has  notoriously  been 
the  cher  ami  of  her  chaperone  !  " 

"But  all  the  chances  are  that  she  knows  nothing  o 
that.  Yes — I  am  serious."  He  was  answering  a  sneering 
smile.  "Outsiders  always  see  most  of  the  game,  and  I 
shouldn't  mind  wagering  a  good  sum  that  the  girl  hasn't 
an  idea  of  the  true  position.  And  it  may  quite  well  be 
that  we  are  all  wronging  her?  You  yourself  admit  that 
Bering  is  a  wonderful  judge  of  character." 

"Bid  you  ever  know  a  man  who  could  correctly  judge 
the  character  of  the  woman  he  loved  ?  " 

"Yes— I  think  so." 

Underwood's  voice  was  drowned  in  the  bustle  of  a  train 


26o  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


just  about  to  start.  He  stood  up  and  leaned  out  of  the 
window. 

"  You  are  going  to  tell  him  ?  "  he  called  out.  Doyenbert 
nodded. 

To-night!" 

It  was  midnight  when  the  critic  reached  the  studio. 
Bering  was  expecting  him  and  had  ordered  a  light  supper 
to  be  prepared. 

The  painter  was  excited  and  in  high  spirits.  His  mind 
was  made  up.  Come  what  might  he  meant  to  claim  his 
own  on  the  morrow.  He  knew  that  the  girl  of  his  heart 
was  in  a  capricious  frame  of  mind,  and  he  anticipated  that 
she  would  make  difficulties,  but  he  had  the  power  to 
dominate  her  and  he  meant  to  do  it.  Later  on  they  could 
reconcile  their  differences  of  thought  and  opinion — or  agree 
to  leave  them  unreconciled,  but  the  thing  that  counted  now 
was  the  meeting  of  lips. 

He  was  prepared  to  make  her  acknowledge  her  love — 
against  her  will  or  with  it.  She  must  confess  that  she 
belonged  to  him  by  all  the  rights :  mutual  love,  mutual 
longing,  understanding,  perfect  faith.  She  was  not  yet 
prepared  to  submit — that  he  knew,  but  he  was  tired  of 
waiting,  and  besides — there  were  rocks  ahead  and  it  was 
his  place  to  steer  her  clear  of  them. 

He  had  been  furious  at  the  gossip  which  had  connected 
her  name  with  that  of  Ivan  Apraxine  but  he  had  never  for 
a  moment  doubted  her.  She  was  spoiled  and  exceedingly 
wilful.  It  was  enough  for  her  to  know  that  something  was 
likely  to  "  shock  someone  to  make  her  immediately  want 
to  do  it.  She  was  lovely  and  attractive  and  circumstances 
had  thrown  her  in  unsuitable,  it  might  be  perilous,  sur- 
roundings. Her  father  was  restless  and  shifty  as  the  sands 
of  the  sea,  and  her  cousin — ?  It  made  Bering  feel  savage 
to  think  that  his  peerless  one,  his  darling,  should  be  under 
the  care  of  such  a  woman  as  Madame  de  Brissac.  He 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  261 


blamed  himself  for  having  hesitated  a  single  moment 
when  once  he  realized  that  he  had  the  power  to  win  the 
ideal  of  his  dreams.  His  motto  ought  to  have  been  win 
in  haste  and  woo  at  leisure.  She  was  high-spirited  and 
restive :  she  did  not  wish  to  be  controlled — even  by  him, 
but  she  would  kiss  the  hand  of  her  master,  when  the  master 
had  become  her  willing  slave. 

As  he  sat  and  waited  for  the  doctor,  alone  in  the  big 
studio,  his  pulses  throbbed  with  triumph  and  excitement, 
and  when  Doyenbert  at  last  came  in,  the  dark  mood  still 
heavy  upon  him,  the  painter  chaffed  him  freely  and  accepted 
with  obvious  delight  the  fierce  retorts  which  followed.  But 
he  became  serious  when  the  critic  spoke  of  Underwood's 
sudden  departure — and  its  cause.  He  was  unfeignedly 
glad  that  things  were  likely  to  become  possible  for  the 
two  people  he  liked  so  well,  but  it  seemed  in  rank  bad 
taste  to  openly  rejoice — as  Doyenbert  was  rejoicing — over 
the  death  of  a  woman.  He  said  something  of  this  and  the 
doctor  turned  on  him  savagely. 

"  I  have  had  a  surfeit  of  you  sentimentalists.  You 
upset  my  digestion.  This  woman.  Underwood's  wife,  was 
very  much  in  the  way,  and  why  should  we  think  it  necessary 
to  wipe  our  eyes  when  we  hear  that  she  is  being  removed  ? 
Mrs  Waring  is  a  nice  little  woman.  Underwood  is  a  decent 
fellow,  and  they  are  in  love  with  each  other.  Is  it  not 
better  that  they  should  be  free  to  marry?  I  am  not  a 
believer  in  the  union  libre^  even  when  it  is  veiled  in  supposed 
*  friendship.' 

That's  not  fair  and  you  oughtn't  to  have  said  it. 
There  would  never  have  been  a  question  of  union  litre 
in  this  case." 

Doyenbert  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  thin  lips  curled 
in  an  evil  smile. 

"You  think  not,  but  then  you  are  a  sickly  sentimentahst. 
You  deal  with  ideas  and  ideals.  You  deUberately  shut 
your  eyes  to  the  realities  of  Hfe.    When  a  man  loves  a 


262  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


woman  he  takes  possession  of  her :  with  the  blessing  of  a 
Priest  or  without  it." 

"  You  loved  my  mother  ! " 

Doyenbert  sprang  to  his  feet  and  rushed  at  the  speaker, 
his  hands  clenched  and  his  features  working  with  rage. 
For  a  moment  Dering  thought  he  was  going  to  strike  him. 
The  doctor  pulled  up  and  glared  at  him  for  a  minute,  in 
silence :  then  he  sank  back  into  his  chair,  leaned  his  elbow 
on  the  table  and  shaded  his  eyes. 
Who  told  you  that?" 

"  Uncle  Jack — when  he  was  dying.  He  spoke  a  great 
deal  of  you  and  of  your  affection  for  me,  and  when  I  suggested 
that  it  would  be  too  much  to  expect  such  a  busy  man  to 
bother  himself  about  my  affairs  he  said — *  He  loved  your 
mother.    He  has  never  forgotten  her.'" 

"  Never  I " 

The  single  word  was  spoken  with  violent  emotion  and 
Dering  drew  back  :  he  was  already  regretting  his  hasty  betrayal 
of  knowledge  which  had  always  seemed  to  him  sacred. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  silence :  it  was  broken  at  last 
by  the  doctor. 

"  It  is  quite  true.  I  loved  her — and  I  have  never 
forgotten  her.  It  was  no  ordinary  love.  It  was  some- 
thing more  like  adoration  and  reverence  for  something  far 
removed  from  the  passions  and  follies  of  this  world." 

"And  yet  you  insistently  deny  the  reality  of  deathless 
love?" 

Dering  was  smiling  a  little  but  no  answering  smile  came 
to  the  doctor's  lips. 

'*I  do  not  deny  that,  here  and  there,  men  and  women 
may  be  found  who  are  capable  of  a  grande  passion — but 
they  are  very  rare.  So  rare  that  one  is  justified  in  denying 
their  existence." 

"  I'm  sure  you're  wrong.  I  believe  that  almost  every  man, 
every  woman  too,  is  capable  of  an  absorbing  love — which 
cannot  change.     When  mate   calls  to  mate   there  is  no 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  263 


hesitation :  a  flutter  of  wings  and  the  world  is  forgotten : 
the  two  have  become  one." 

"You  believe  that?  Yes — I  know  you  do  unfortunately/' 
He  paused  and  leaned  back,  his  eyes  shut.  When  he  opened 
them  the  fire  of  angry  irritation  had  gone :  he  looked  tired 
and  sad.  "You  have  taken  me  back  to  the  past/'  he  said, 
"and  I  have  a  right  to  feel  angry — but  I  do  not.  You  are 
htr  son  and  that  gives  you  many  privileges.  I  think  she 
cared  for  me,  but  I  never  knew — really.  She  was  pure  as  the 
Blessed  Virgin  and  just  as  far  removed  from  ordinary  human 
beings,  or  so  it  seemed  to  me.  And  it  was  part  of  her  sweet 
belief  that  her  duty  lay  in  giving  faith  for  unfaith.  Jack 
Fitzgerald  hated  your  father — and  I — "  he  paused,  and  the 
Hnes  on  his  sensitive  face  grew  hard.  "  Never  mind,  all  that 
is  past.  We  are  in  the  present  now  and  it  is  with  the 
present  we  must  deal.  If  it  were  in  me  to  love  anyone,  now, 
I  think  I  should  love  you.  At  anyrate  I  wish  you  well :  I 
wish  to  promote  your  happiness.  A  serious  hurt  to  you  would 
be  a  hurt  to  me,  and — I  want  to  warn  you." 

"  Against  what  ?  " 

"Against  the  girl  you  love.  Bering,  she  is  un- 
worthy." 

"  It's  a  lie  !  " 

The  veins  stood  out  on  the  painter's  forehead  and  he  rose 
suddenly  to  his  feet. 

"  It  is  true.    She  is  going  to  marry  Platoff." 

He  laughed  aloud,  and  in  the  laughter  there  was  no  bitter- 
ness :  the  idea  was  too  utterly  absurd. 

"  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour,  it  is  true.  To-night,  at 
dinner.  Prince  Alexis  Zouroff  spoke  of  it — openly.  He  said 
that  Platoff  felt  the  need  of  an  heir  and  that  he  had  decided 
to  marry  the  cousin  of  his  old  friend  the  Comtesse  de 
Brissac." 

»tThe  d  d  scoundrel." 

Bering  walked  quickly  to  one  of  the  large  windows  and 


264  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


threw  it  open  :  he  felt  suffocated.  Doyenbert  watched  him  in 
silence,  then  he  said  very  quietly : 

It  is  a  beastly  affair,  but — it  has  got  to  be  faced.  You 
have  never  spoken  very  much  about  this  girl  but  I  know  you 
love  her,  and  I  also  know  that  you  have  made  a  big  mistake 
in  your  judgment  of  her  character.  She  is  very  beautiful — no 
one  can  deny  that,  but  she  is  corrupt  and,  already,  young  girl 
though  she  is,  vitiated.  Yes — you  must  hear  me  out,"  for 
Bering  had  approached  with  fury  depicted  on  every  line  of 
his  face,  *'you  w^/^/ have  patience.  When  I  have  said  what 
I  came  here  to  say,  you  can  turn  me  out  if  you  please,  but  I 
am  determined  that  you  shall  know  the  truth.  Violet  Hilliard 
is  vitiated  and  utterly  unworthy  of  your  love.  She  is  already 
a  slave  of  the  World,  and  of  the  World  at  its  worst.  We 
spoke  in  semi-jest,  the  other  day,  of  the  ^jeune  fille  de  demain^^ 
but  the  most  emancipated  jeune  fille  might  well  draw  back 
from  things  which  appear  quite  natural  and  right  to  Miss 
Hilliard.  She  is  prepared — of  that  there  is  not  a  shadow 
of  doubt — to  marry  Platoff  though  she  knows  he  is  the 
cher  ami  of  her  cousin,  though  she  knows  that  Madame 
de  Brissac's  consent  has  been  bought.  She  is  prepared 
to  sell  herself  as  shamelessly  as  any  woman  of  the  half 
world :  far  more  shamelessly,  for  many  a  member  of  the 
*  lost  sisterhood '  would  scorn  to  do  what  she  is  doing.  She 
is  her  father's  daughter — ready  to  sacrifice  everything  for 
money,  but  still  worse — she  is  rapidly  becoming  a  slave  to  the 
Green  Fairy.  Yes — this  girl  you  want  to  marry  is  rapidly 
becoming  a  slave  to  absinthe  and  she  is  said  to  be  one  of  the 
'  elect '  y  one  of  those  for  whom  the  Green  Fairy  has  a  special 
affection — one  of  those  in  whom  she  can  work  wonders.  To- 
night, at  dinner,  Alexis  Zouroff  made  a  brutal  jest  about  *  the 
dreams  of  a  jeune  fille.^  He  said  openly  that  Apraxine  had 
been  made  the  confidant  of  Miss  Hilliard's  visions — when 
under  the  spell  of  absinthe.  If  you  had  heard  him^ — if  you 
had  heard  his  word  picture  of  her  future — of  the  future  of  the 
Platoff  mSnage^  you  would  have  had  a  rough  awakening. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  265 


Zouroff  is  a  man  of  the  world  and  he  does  not  make  any 
special  pretension  of  morality  but  even  he  is  of  opinion  that 
the  whole  affair  is  disgusting." 

He  pulled  up  suddenly  and  looked  hard  at  the  man  who 
had  taken  a  chair  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  Dering 
was  deathly  pale  and  there  was  a  flame  of  fury  in  his  dark 
eyes  that  brought  sudden  terror  to  the  watcher — notably  a 
brave  man.  Instinctively  Doyenbert  drew  back :  Dering 
smiled. 

"  You  think  I'm  going  to  try  to  kill  you,"  he  said  slowly, 
"but  you  needn't  be  afraid — I  am  not  concerned  withj^?^." 
"  You  mean — ?  " 

*'That  I  shall  learn  the  truth,  first,  and  then — ?" 

**Then— 

"I  shall  act." 

Again  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  It 
seemed  to  Doyenbert  that  the  face  he  knew  so  well  had 
suddenly  changed  beyond  possibility  of  recognition.  The 
lines  were  almost  brutal  in  their  rigid  sternness  and  there  was 
that  in  the  dark  eyes  which  might  well  make  a  man,  even  a 
brave  one,  pause.  Accustomed  to  studying  the  workings  of 
the  mind  through  the  unconscious  workings  of  the  body  he 
let  his  keen  eyes  slowly  wander  from  the  flaming  eyes  to  the 
rigid  body,  down  to  the  hands,  which  were  resting  on  the 
table.  He  smothered  an  exclamation.  Dering's  left  hand 
had  closed  over  a  metal  vase  which  held  a  single  rose.  The 
vase  was  crushed  between  his  fingers — flat  and  shapeless.  He 
looked  away  hastily. 

Dering  !  "  The  raucous  voice  sounded  strangely  soft. 
"  Miles — my  dear  boy,  listen  to  reason.  You  have  made  a 
mistake  but — we  are  all  liable  to  that.  You  have  not  known 
this  girl  very  long — you  will  get  over  it.  And  besides — " 
he  hastened  to  speak  quickly  before  an  interruption  could 
come,  there  is  Princess  Borizofi"!  Of  course  I  have  no 
right  to  try  to  force  your  confidence  but  we  have  all  seen  how 
things  vvere  going  in  that  direction — and  she  is  really  splendid. 


266  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


I  used  not  to  like  her,  but  I  have  always  recognized 
her  extraordinary  beauty — and  charm.  And  certainly 
she—" 

"  Stop  I      Bering's  voice  was  hoarse  and  jarring.  He 
seemed  hardly  able  to  control  himself. 
Doyenbert  stared  at  him. 

"  You  object  to  the  name  of  the  Princess  being — " 

**  I  object  to  everything  you  have  said — and  to  your 
manner  of  saying  it.  Let  us  finish  the  matter  right  here — 
once  and  for  ever.  I  have  no  doubt  that  your  intention  is 
good — as  you  understand  good,  but  unless  you  want  our 
friendship — even  our  acquaintance — to  come  to  an  abrupt 
end  you  must  never  again  speak  in  my  presence  as  you  have 
just  done — of  Miss  Hilliard.  You  have  no  right  to  judge  her. 
No  man  has  a  right  to  judge  any  woman.  We  are  all  human 
creatures,  with  human  possibilities,  and  who  gave  you,  or  any 
other  man,  the  right  to  say  this  woman,  or  that,  is  *  unworthy  '? 
You  set  up  a  very  high  standard  of  perfection,  but  suppose 
that  any  woman  demanded  of  you  but  the  tenth  part  of  that 
perfection  what  would  you  have  to  offer?  I  don't  believe 
that  what  you  have  stated  is  true,  but  if  I  absolutely  knew  it 
to  be  true — what  then  ?  All  that  concerns  me  is  that  I  love 
Miss  Hilliard  and  that  I  believe  she  loves  me.  All  that 
concerns  me  is  that  I  believe  her  to  be,  at  heart,  as  pure  and 
as  sweet  as  was  my  own  mother  ! " 

"You  dare  to  compare  her — that  girl — with — 
With  my  mother  ?    Yes  !  " 

The  two  men  stood  face  to  face  and  each  countenance 
was  alight  with  a  passion  of  excitement. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Doyenbert  held  out  his 
hand. 

''Take  it,  or  leave  it,"  he  said.  "I  am  your  friend:  I 
shall  always  remain  your  friend.  Probably  you  will  not 
believe  me,  but  it  is  true  that  I  would  give  my  right  hand,  and 
willingly,  to  know  that  your  estimate  of  this  girl  is  the  true 
one.    You  are  an  obstinate  devil,  and  you  must  take  your 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  267 


own  way,  but  for  once  I  borrow  from  the  priests  and  say — 
*  God  bless  you/  " 

He  was  gone  before  Bering  could  reply  and  for  quite  a 
long  time  the  painter  remained  motionless,  looking  at  the 
open  door.  Then  he  crossed  the  room,  sat  down  by  a  massive 
ebony  table  and  began  to  write. 

Page  after  page  of  the  square  letter  paper  he  always  used 
was  filled  and  still  he  seemed  unable  to  stop. 

The  sluice-gates  were  up  and  his  passionate  love  was 
flowing  out  towards  the  girl  he  adored.  Nothing  was  held 
back — nothing  was  veiled.  The  call  of  Love  was  vehement — 
overwhelming  in  its  incoherent  eloquence. 

When  the  letter  was  finished  he  read  it  over — and  smiled. 
But  he  altered  nothing. 

He  sealed  it  up  and  directed  the  envelope — it  was  to  be 
delivered  the  first  thing  that  morning — for  dawn  was  already 
making  ready  to  break. 

Then  he  went  to  the  open  window  and  leaned  out.  Rain 
was  falling,  softly,  like  an  ashen  veil.  The  world  seemed 
enveloped  in  mist — mysterious  and  evasive.  Before  him,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  sleepless  river,  rose  the  Janiculum  Hill — 
black  and  sombre  against  a  threatening  sky.  There  was  a 
great  stillness  in  which  he  seemed  to  hear  the  throbbings  of 
his  heart. 

He  leaned  out  still  further  and  let  the  soft  rain  beat 
against  his  face  ;  his  whole  being  seemed  on  fire. 

He  thought  of  Violet — of  her  surroundings — of  her  tempta- 
tions, and  he  loathed  himself.  What  a  coward  he  had  been  ! 
And  what  a  fool !  He  knew — no  one  better — the  dangers 
that  must  ever  surround  such  a  temperament  as  hers.  He 
knew — no  one  better — the  possibilities — waking  and  sleeping 
— of  her  nature.    And  yet  he  had  hesitated. 

A  wild  storm  of  impatience  suddenly  possessed  him  and 
it  seemed  impossible  to  wait — even  a  few  hours  longer. 

He  would  win  her — and  woo  her !  He  knew  it  must  be 
like  that.    The  beasts  of  prey  were  prowling  round  the  dainty 


268  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


morsel  and  he  must  not  wait  a  moment  longer:  he  must 
take  possession  of  her — with  her  consent  or  without  it ! 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  damp  hair  as  he  turned 
back  to  the  room.  He  was  too  excited  to  sleep — work  was 
out  of  the  question.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  he  said  a 
few  words  to  Chu  and,  taking  up  a  soft  grey  felt  hat,  he 
passed  down  the  stone  steps  and  out  into  the  silent  streets. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


ALL  that  day  Miles  Dering  waited  for  Violet :  in  his 
studio  consumed  by  impatience. 
In  the  early  morning  Chu  had  taken  the  letter  to  the 
Hotel  Bristol  and  at  mid-day  an  answer  had  come :  just  four 
words — "  Wait  for  me. — Violet." 
And  he  waited. 

Several  times  his  sister  Jessica  came  in  and  talked  to  him 
as  though  nothing  were  the  matter,  but  she  knew :  or  at  least 
she  guessed.  And  her  thoughts  were  bitter,  for  a  rumour  of 
the  Platoff  marriage  had  reached  her  and  she  feared — she 
scarcely  knew  what.  She  realized,  better  than  any  other 
living  being,  the  violence  of  her  brother's  temperament.  She 
knew  something  of  his  possibilities  and  very  much  of  his 
depth  of  feeling.  As  the  hours  crept  on — and  still  the  impatient 
steps — up  and  down,  up  and  down,  came  from  the  big  studio  she 
became  paralyzed  with  fear  and  she  went  out.  At  first  she  did 
not  know  where  she  wanted  to  go  or  what  she  wanted  to  do — 
except  to  escape  from  her  fears  and  from  the  sound  of  those 
restless  steps.  But  then  her  brain  cleared  and  she  saw  her 
way.  She  drove  direct  to  the  Piazza  Santa  Maria  Maggiore 
and  entered  the  wonderful  old  church — one  of  the  oldest  in 
Rome  and  dedicated  to  the  Madonna.  It  was  the  hour  of 
Vespers,  and  as  she  knelt  in  a  secluded  corner  the  setting  sun 
cast  rays  of  brilliant  gold  on  the  mosaics  in  the  tribune  and 
on  the  marble  pavements.  The  light  in  the  church  was  soft 
and  dim,  and  the  dark  aisles  seemed  filled  with  a  mist  of 
incense.  A  heavenly  calm  reigned  and  Jessica's  tears  fell 
fast  as  she  knelt,  with  bowed  head  and  trembling  limbs.  She 
was  praying,  with  all  the  fervour  of  a  fanatic,  for  the  happiness 
of  her  idol :  of  the  brother  she  adored. 

269 


270  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


And  as  she  prayed  she  beat  softly  upon  her  breast,  for  the 
words — "Mea  culpa,  mea  culpa,  mea  maxima  culpa rushed 
to  her  lips  !  She  had  sinned,  most  grievously,  against  God — 
and  against  man.  She  had  been  wanting  in  Faith,  and  in 
Hope  and — this  most  of  all — in  Charity.  She  had  allowed 
her  dislike  for  Violet  Hilliard  to  amount  to  something  like 
hatred  :  she  had  probably  been  very  unjust  to  her.  And 
what  had  been  the  chief  cause  of  her  dislike  ?  Had  it  not 
been  jealousy  ? 

The  tears  fell  faster  and  faster  and  she  made  no  effort 
to  check  them.  She  had  been  wrong;  bitterly,  resolutely, 
unjust.  She  remembered  how  her  old  friend  Miss  Hilliard 
had  written  of  her  niece.  How  she  had  said  '*the  girl  is 
foolish  and  inclined  to  be  worldly,  but  she  has  a  heart :  au 
fond^  her  nature  is  a  fine  one."  She  had  read  the  words  and 
had  scoffed  at  them.  Worse  than  that— far  worse,  she  had 
purposely  refrained  from  showing  her  brother  that  particular 
letter.  She  had,  from  time  to  time,  said  things  against  Violet 
— she  had  never  even  given  her  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

It  seemed  to  Jessica  Hilliard  that  then,  in  the  dim,  silent 
church  she  realized  for  the  first  time  the  full  grandeur  of 
^*  Uncle  Jack's ''  philosophy — and  of  her  brother's.  For  the 
first  time  she  seemed  to  understand  all  that  was  embraced  in 
their  unwavering  belief  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  good :  in 
the  power  of  the  Divine  qualities  which  are  the  birthright  of 
humanity  but  which  so  often  droop  and  wither  for  want  of 
the  water  of  a  kindly,  helpful  word. 

She  thought  of  Miles  and  of  his  splendid  character.  So 
simple  and  yet,  in  a  way,  so  complicated.  She  thought  of  his 
firm  adherence  to  their  uncle's  motto — Live  and  Help  Live." 
That  was  what  he  did.  Just  that  and  nothing  more.  And 
for  that  they  called  him  "a  crank."  They  mocked  at  him — 
when  they  dared. 

Miles  was  no  saint — that  she  knew.  He  was  a  very 
human  man  but  he  was  no  coward.  Of  the  World  he  had 
no  fear.    It  had  not  the  power  to  make  him  do  a  mean 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  271 


action.  He  had  many  faults  but  he  was  every  inch  a  man  : 
with  a  true  man's  inborn  desire  to  help  the  weak. 

He  was  splendid  :  the  most  perfect  brother  woman  ever  had ! 
She  remembered  some  words,  spoken  carelessly  by  Mrs 
Waring. 

"  My  dear  girl — what  a  lover  that  big  brother  of  yours  will 
make,  one  of  these  fine  days  !    And  what  a  husband  !  " 

The  shadows  were  falling  fast  and  still  she  knelt.  Still 
she  prayed. 

And,  floating  on  the  wings  of  twilight,  there  came  Peace. 

All  day  long  Bering  waited.  Wildly  impatient :  feverishly 
anxious  :  but  always  waiting. 

Again  and  again,  through  that  interminable  day,  he  had 
determined  to  go  to  the  Hotel  Bristol  and  to  demand  an 
interview  with  Violet. 

He  knew  almost  to  a  certainty  that  it  would  be  denied 
him.  That  some  rude  and  contemptuous  message  would  be 
sent  him  by  the  Comtesse.  Nevertheless  he  felt  that  it 
savoured  of  the  coward  to  stay  at  home  and  await  events.  It 
was  not  because  he  wished  to  avoid  possible  insolence  on  the 
part  of  the  Comtesse  de  Brissac  that  he  hesitated.  Nothing 
would  have  given  him  greater  pleasure  than  to  have  had  it 
out "  with  her !  But  he  had  an  overwhelming  horror  of 
seeing  the  girl  of  his  heart  in  those  surroundings.  More 
especially  on  the  occasion  of  the  meeting  which  would  be — 
must  be — the  most  important  of  their  life. 

Morning  had  given  place  to  noon  and  noon  to  shadowy 
evening  before  any  relief  came  for  his  feverish  impatience. 
And  then  a  messenger  delivered  a  tiny  note — again  only  a 
few  words  : — "  I  shall  be  with  you  at  9.30. — Violet." 

Bering  was  amazed. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  any  fear  of  the  convenances^  for  his 
sister  would  be  in  the  house :  and  besides,  he  knew  that  the 
elder  Miss  Hilliard — whose  influence  was  all-powerful,  when 
she  cared  to  use  it — would  have  trusted  her  niece  to  his  care 


272  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night.  But  he  was  absolutely 
amazed  at  the  hour  named — 9.30  at  night?  It  seemed 
extraordinary  and  inexplicable.  How  could  Violet  get  away 
from  the  Comtesse  at  that  hour  without  arousing  unpleasant 
comment  ? 

His  sister  came  in  and  talked  as  though  nothing  unusual 
was  in  the  air.  She  even — with  difficulty — mentioned  Violet's 
name  and  showed  no  surprise  when  her  brother  said  that 
she  was  coming  to  the  studio  that  evening.  "  Probably  she 
will  be  able  to  give  us  some  news  of  her  aunt/'  Jessica  said. 
"  I  had  a  letter  from  Miss  Hilliard  this  morning  and  she  says 
she  intends  leaving  Florence  to-morrow  and  coming  down 
here,  to  spend  a  week  or  ten  days  with  me — with  us,  that  is  to 
say.'' 

Bering  received  the  news  with  some  show  of  interest  but 
it  was  so  evident  that  his  thoughts  were  completely  occu- 
pied that  Jessica  soon  made  an  excuse  to  leave  him 
alone. 

At  the  door  of  the  big  studio  she  turned  and  looked  back 
at  him. 

He  was  standing  in  his  favourite  corner,  near  an  open 
window,  and  she  thought  she  had  never  seen  him  look  so 
handsome — so  supremely  distinguished.  He  was  leaning  on 
the  window-sill  and  his  dark  face  was  in  profile,  silhouetted 
against  the  gathering  shadows  of  night.  He  looked  like  a 
Roman  athlete  of  ancient  days — in  modern  clothes  and 
surroundings  !  The  pose  of  his  perfectly-balanced  figure  was 
tense :  the  lines  of  jaw  and  mouth  fixed  to  the  point  of 
sternness.  He  was  unconscious  of  her  presence — Jessica 
knew  that :  and  so  she  lingered  a  second  or  two  and  watched 
him. 

And  some  words  spoken  by  her  uncle  on  his  death-bed 
came  back  to  her  :  I  am  proud  of  my  boy — too  proud 
perhaps.  But  I  am  afraid  for  him.  Desperately  afraid.  If 
ever  there  comes  for  him  a  real  parting  of  the  ways  there 
will  be  great  danger.    He  is  naturally  violent.    Life  may  hew 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  273 


him  into  something  like  a  god  or — it  may  make  of  him  a 
devil." 

Night  had  fallen.  With  noiseless  movements  the  little 
Jap  servant,  Chu,  had  arranged  some  shaded  lamps  on  the 
studio  tables.  He  had  omitted  to  light  the  great  lamp  which 
hung  from  the  ceiling  in  the  centre  of  the  room  and  which 
was  capable  of  flooding  every  corner  of  it  with  vivid  white 
light.  It  is  possible  that  he  had  received  instructions  from 
Jessica  but  more  probable  that  his  own  keen  intuition  had 
supplied  the  key  to  his  Master's  mood ! 

Deftly  he  arranged  the  furniture  and  put  together  some 
loose  sketches  which  lay  on  a  chair.  Then — with  a  stolen 
glance  at  the  tall  figure  by  the  window — he  brought  in  two 
branches  of  exquisite  white  roses  and  laid  them  on  one  of  the 
tables.  He  who  loved  beautiful  flowers  only  one  degree  less 
thm  he  loved  his  Master  made  no  attempt  to  put  the  roses  in 
water.  He  laid  them  down  softly  and  with  lingering  touch 
as  one  might  lay  a  cluster  of  flowers  on  an  altar.  Then  he 
looked  up  suddenly,  as  though  listening,  and  a  moment  later 
he  was  gone. 

Dering  turned  round  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  roses. 
He  took  a  step  or  two  forward  and  bent  over  them.  At  the 
same  moment  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  studio  opened  softly 
and  someone  entered — a  tall,  slender  woman  enveloped  in  a 
long  wrap  of  velvet  and  fur  which  completely  disguised  her, 
for  a  picturesque  hood  of  velvet  was  drawn  over  the  head  and 
far  down  on  the  face. 

A  stifled  cry  of  fond  welcome  burst  from  Bering's  lips  as 

he  rushed  forward  and  caught  her  hands.    Violet  looked  up 

at   him   and   the   hood   fell  back.    His  eyes — imperious, 

worshipful,  questioned  hers,  but  the  answer  was  never  spoken 

— in  words.    A  divine  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks  and  her  bare 

white  arms  crept  up  and  up,  until  they  encircled  his  neck 

and  drew  down  his  head. 

love  you — "  she  whispered.    "I  love — you — "  But 
18 


274  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


the  words  were  strangled  by  the  vehemence  of  that  first 
kiss. 

For  Bering  time  ceased  to  exist.  How  long  he  held  her 
there — clasped  close  to  his  wildly  beating  heart — he  knew 
not. 

Nor  what  he  said. 

Words  of  wild  idolatry  broke  from  him — only  to  be  lost  in 
the  ecstasy  of  a  renewed  embrace.  He  was  not  conscious  of 
anything  save  the  glorious  fact  that  he  held  in  his  arms,  in  his 
close  embrace,  the  idol  of  his  dreams :  his  darling — his 
wife. 

The  lightly  slumbering  fires  of  a  violent  nature  flamed  up 
and  entered  into  possession  of  their  kingdom.  He  was  mad 
with  joy  and  triumph. 

And  the  warmth  of  his  caresses — the  fire  of  his  burning 
words  made  the  girl  feel  that  her  whole  being  was  aflame. 
She  turned  very  white  and  her  breath  came  and  went  unevenly. 
In  a  second  Bering  regained  control  of  himself  and,  with 
words  of  self-condemnation,  carried  her  to  an  old-fashioned 
sofa,  wide  and  low,  which  stood  against  the  wall  at  one  end 
of  the  room.  With  delicious  tenderness  he  laid  her  back 
against  the  cushions  and  knelt  by  her  side. 

*'What  a  brute  I  am!''  he  said  penitently.  "A  poor, 
little  slender  girl  like  you  runs  a  good  chance  of  being 
crushed  to  death — at  close  quarters  with  me  1 "  He  was 
smiling  and  though  the  words  expressed  penitence  his  dark 
eyes  were  blazing  with  triumph.  The  rose-flush  crept  back 
into  her  exquisite  cheeks  and  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"How  splendid  you  are,"  she  whispered,  **and  how 
strong  !  I  almost  thought  you  were  going  to  kill  me — just 
then!" 

He  laid  her  bare  arms  round  his  neck  as  he  knelt  beside 

her. 

**To  kiss  you  'till  one  killed  you' — do  you  remember? 
Yes — I  could  do  it  easily  1  " 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  275 


She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  and  then  her  white  lids 

fell. 

**Yes — I  know.  You  could!  That's  why  you  are  so 
glorious — that's  why  I  love  you,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul ! " 
There  was  something  in  her  voice — some  vibrating  tone, 
hitherto  unrealized,  that  startled  him.  He  looked  at  her. 
And  as  his  adoring  eyes  wandered  over  her  lovely  face,  flushed 
and  quivering  with  excitement — over  the  soft  curves  of  her 
figure,  shown  to  extraordinary  advantage  in  bewildering 
draperies  of  silken  muslins,  ivory-tinted  and  laden  with 
crystal  embroideries — he  felt  it  almost  impossible  to 
force  back  the  mad  desire  to  crush  her  in  his  arms  once 
more  and  to  cover  her  with  burning  kisses.  A  sea  of  blood 
seemed  flowing  before  his  eyes,  and  for  a  single  moment  he 
was  absolutely  motionless ;  rigid  as  a  statue.  Then  he  softly 
drew  her  into  his  arms. 

*' Sweetheart — my  wife — you  are  sure?  You  love  me  like 
that — heart  and  soul — and  beautiful  body  ?  You  are  all  mine  ? '' 

He  was  trembling  with  suppressed  emotion  and  uncon- 
sciously he  tangled  his  fingers  in  the  golden  meshes  of  her 
shining  hair.  Then,  when  he  realized  what  he  had  done,  he 
smiled  tenderly  and  kissed  the  disturbed  curl. 

I'm  a  rough  brute — am  I  not,  sweetheart?  Aren't  you 
afraid  to  trust  your  life  into  my  keeping  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

A  curious  change  had  suddenly  come  to  her — she  was 
desperately  afraid.  She  had  come  to  the  studio  in  a  state  of 
intense  excitement:  almost  of  exaltation.  The  way  had 
seemed  very  clear  and  the  fierce  passion  of  that  first  embrace 
— that  first  kiss — had  made  it  seem  still  clearer.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  had  fully  realized  the  physical  strength 
and  physical  passions  of  the  man  she  loved.  And  the 
realization  had  made  her  triumphant.  He  was  superb — he 
was  delicious — he  was  masterful — this  man  who  adored  her  : 
and  he  was  hers  I  By  his  love  for  her  she  could  lead  him — 
anywhere ! 


276  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


In  those  first  moments  she  had  felt  certain  :  absolutely 
certain. 

But  now? 

Had  the  old  fear  of  his  dominance  crept  in  to  paralyse 
her? 

Why  was  it  that  she  found  it  so  difficult — almost  impossible — 
to  intrench  herself  with  a  supreme  belief  in  her  own  charm — 
for  him  ?  She  was  very  pale  but  the  pallor  only  added  to  her 
beauty.  Dering  devoured  her  face  with  worshipful  eyes. 
With  caressing  fingers  he  touched  the  diamonds  in  her  little 
pink-tipped  ears  and  the  pearls  that  lay  against  her  throat. 

Is  it  all  for  me — this  gorgeous  attire  ? — ^  Her  hair  was  as 
a  fleece  of  gold — each  separate  hair  as  a  thread  of  fine  gold — 
her  body  was  as  white  ivory ! '  I  think  that  lovely  little 
mermaid  must  have  looked  very  like  you — even  the  tail !  " 
He  laughed  softly  as  he  looked  down  at  the  trailing  draperies 
that  wound  themselves  sinuously  about  the  girl's  slender  form. 

Yes  !  *  Silver  and  pearl ' — the  resemblance  is  perfect !  And 
all  for  me  !  "    His  arms  closed  round  her  but  she  drew  back. 

^0— phase — Miles."  She  smiled  as  she  spoke  his  name 
softly  and  a  tinge  of  colour  rose  to  the  bronzed  face. 

*'Myown — "  he  murmured  adoringly:  but  still  she  held 
back. 

Please  come  and  sit  beside  me — and  let  us  be  very  sen- 
sible— just  for  a  minute  or  two.  There  is  something  I  want 
to  say  and  you  must  promise  to  listen — right  to  the  very  end  ? 
And  not  to  interrupt?  Really — really  it's  very  important 
and — it's  not  very  easy — only  I  must  say  it.  Everything 
depends  on  it — all  our  happiness — all  our  future  !  " 

The  dark  brows  shot  up  in  pretended  amazement. 

"  Serious  as  all  that  ?  "  he  said  as  he  rose  from  his  knees 
and  sat  beside  her — very  close. 

She  moved  away,  just  an  inch  or  two. 

"  Yes — truly.  Quite  serious.  And  please  let  us  be  very 
sensible." 

She  tried  to  push  aside  the  encircling  arms  but  in  vain. 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  I  am  sensible  !  And  Fm  prepared  to  sit  here  and  listen 
— for  hours  !  " 

She  looked  at  him ;  and  something  in  the  perfect  happi- 
ness, the  absolute  confidence,  of  his  passionate  eyes  filled  her 
with  sudden  terror. 

She  paused :  then  went  on  desperately. 

"  I  love  you — with  all  my  heart  and  soul — with  all  that's 
best  in  me.  When  I  am  with  you  I  want  to  see  things  just 
as  you  see  them.  I  want  to  try  and  help  people — like  the 
*poor  dears.'  When  I  am  with  you  all  that's  best  in  me 
comes  out — or  it  tries  to ;  everything  seems  different — my 
thoughts  and  ambitions  and  wishes — everything.  I  am  certain 
you  are  my  good  angel — you — are — "/ 

The  strong  arms  had  tightened  their  hold  and  her  lips 
were  in  the  prison  of  a  passionate  kiss.  She  struggled  to  get 
free. 

"  Miles— you  promised  !  " 

Her  breath  came  and  went  quickly  and  Dering  looked 
properly  penitent. 

I  am  '  sensible,' "  he  whispered  as  he  brushed  his  lips 
against  her  bare  white  shoulder.  Yes — really  I'll  be  awfully 
well  behaved." 

Again  there  was  silence.  A  terrible  struggle  was  taking 
place  within  her :  she  felt  torn  to  pieces,  but  she  did  not 
hesitate — really.  A  future — exquisite,  deliriously  happy,  even 
"good" — if  one  realized  the  real  meaning  of  the  word — 
stretched  itself  out  before  her.  It  was  within  her  grasp — if 
only  she  could  make  him  understand  :  if  only  he  would  see — 
for  once — with  her  eyes.  Something  of  the  exaltation  which 
had  filled  her  when  she  entered  the  studio  returned.  It 
seemeci*^  to  her  that  she  was  fighting  for  the  right.  Fighting 
for  the  good  of  her  own  soul — as  she  understood  "good." 
He  had  very  strong  views,  very  firm  convictions  but — were 
they  necessarily  right,  for  everybody  ?  Was  it  not  the  duty 
of  every  living  soul  to  fight  for  its  individual  freedom  ?  For 
its  individual  rights  ?     And  she  knew  herself  —  her  own 


278  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


nature.  She  knew  herself  better  than  he  could  ever  know 
her. 

Without  looking  at  Bering  she  went  on,  and  one  little 
white  hand  crept  softly  into  the  warm  embrace  of  the  restless 
brown  fingers. 

"  You  have  the  power  to  bring  out  all  that  is  worth  any- 
thing in  me.  1  want  you  to  be  near  me — always.  I  want  to 
feel  sure  that  I  can  go  to  you  for  help — for  advice — for  love. 
I  want  to  be  able  to  help  you — in  all  these  wonderful  things 
you  do  for  people.  I  want  you  to  be  my  Guardian  Angel — 
always :  and  to  try  to  find  the  angel  in  me — if  such  a  thing 
really  exists.  I  want  to  give  you  my  love — my  faith — my 
perfect  belief — you  will  be — you  must  be  my  husband  before 
God  but— 

**'But'?" 

Bering  caught  her  to  him  with  a  fierce  gesture  of  posses- 
sion and  with  one  hand  he  raised  her  face  so  that  their  eyes 
met. 

*  Your  husband — before  God — but — '  What  do  you  mean 
by  that  ?    What  are  you  trying  to  say  to  me  ? 

His  vibrating  voice  was  hoarse  with  emotion  and  he  stared 
at  her  as  though  trying  to  drag  out  the  secrets  of  her  brain. 
Violet  trembled  violently  and  great  tears  welled  up  into  her 
eyes.  With  a  passionate  gesture  she  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  on  the  mouth. 

I  love  you — I  worship  you  but  I  cannot  do  without 
money — I  cannot — I  cannot.  You  don't  know  what  my  life 
has  been — what  I  have  suffered  from  want  of  money.  What 
humiliations — what  degradations.  You  don't  know — you 
never  could  understand,  for  our  natures  are  absolutely 
different — our  tastes — everything.  Some  people  can  rise  to 
the  level  of  poverty — and  glory  in  it,  but  I  am  not  one  of 
those.  It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  be  content  to  do 
without  things — to  see  other  women  enjoying  the  luxury  I 
have  wanted — all  my  life.  You  may  despise  me — I'm  afraid 
you  will  despise  me,  but  I  am  telling  you  all  that  is  in  my 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  279 


heart  I  want  to  do  what  is  right — for  me.  I  want  to  be 
true  to  what  is  best  in  me — I  want  to  have  a  chance.  And 
you  can  give  it  to  me.  You — and  you  only — can  help  me. 
Let  religious  people  say  what  they  may  it  is  true  that  a  great 
love  sanctifies  everything — justifies  everything.  And  I  love 
you — with  all  my  heart  and  soul :  I  shall  always  love  you — 
and  you  only/' 

You  love  me—*  but'?" 
There  was  something  terrible  in  the  level  tones.  Bering 
was  holding  himself  in  leash :  he  could  hardly  trust  himself 
to  speak. 

Suddenly  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  drew  the  girl  up. 
Say  it — !  "  he  whispered  hoarsely.    "  Say  what  you  have 
to  say — now,'^^ 

**  I  have  promised  to  marry  Prince  Platoff.'' 

The  words  seemed  forced  from  her.  She  was  hardly  con- 
scious of  having  spoken  them. 

There  was  silence.  Bering's  grasp  tightened  on  her 
shoulders — tightened  until  she  had  to  bite  her  lips  to  sup- 
press a  cry  of  pain.  Then  his  long,  sinuous  fingers  stole  up 
to  her  throat. 

You  came  here — to  tell  me  that  ? " 

That — and  other  things.  Oh — Miles  !  Have  pity. 
You  frighten  me." 

He  stared  down,  right  into  her  eyes  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  his  face  was  that  of  a  demon.  The  veins  on  his  forehead 
stood  out  like  cords  and  the  light  of  madness  was  in  his  eyes. 
She  believed  he  was  going  to  kill  her — the  pressure  of  his 
steel-like  fingers  on  her  throat  was  already  depriving  her  of 
breath.  She  was  beside  herself  with  terror. 
Have  pity — let  me  go — " 

The  cry  was  convulsive,  gasping :  and  as  he  heard  it, 
Bering  smiled  strangely.  He  loosed  his  fingers  and  put  her 
away  from  him. 

"  Yes — ril  let  you  go — in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  words. 
If  I  had  believed,  just  then,  that  what  you  called  your  'better 


28o  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


self  existed  I  would  have  killed  you — there  where  you  stand, 
but  you  aren't  worth  it.  You  are  a  fit  mate  for  Prince 
Platoff— go  to  him.'' 

With  a  gesture  of  contempt  he  turned  away  and  crossed 
the  room.  The  great  window  was  still  open  and  he  leaned 
out.  In  that  moment  the  burning  flames  of  hell  seemed  to 
envelope  him. 

The  minutes  stole  by  and  there  was  silence  in  the  studio. 

Violet  Hilliard  had  staggered  back  to  the  sofa  and  was 
sitting  huddled  up  against  the  cushions — her  slender  frame 
shaken  with  violent  sobs. 

Five  minutes — perhaps  ten — went  by.  Then  Bering 
turned  and  looked  at  the  figure  on  the  sofa.  He  was  very 
pale  but  a  mask  had  fallen  on  his  features :  they  expressed 
nothing-  Only  the  dark  eyes  were  alive  and  ablaze  with  a 
fury  of  contempt.  He  crossed  the  room  and  stood  before  the 
sobbing  girl. 

I  think  you  are  going  to  some  entertainment?"  he  said 
quietly.  I  judge  so  from  your  dress.  You  had  better  try  to 
control  yourself." 

Violet  looked  up.  The  violent  fit  of  weeping  had  ravaged 
her  face  but  she  was  still  lovely. 

Miles !    Listen  to  me — for  God's  sake  listen.'' 
I  am  listening  but  don't  you  think  we  had  better  leave 
the  name  of  the  Almighty  out  of  the  matter?    It  cannot  be 
that  you  suppose  He  has  arranged  your  marriage  with  Prince 
Platoff?" 

She  was  trembling  pitifully  as  she  rose  and  tried  to  steady 
herself  against  the  back  of  a  chair. 

How  cruel  you  are — and  how  unjust.  I  tried — yes, 
I  did  try  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth — to  make  you 
understand." 

**  You  have  made  me  understand." 

**No!" 

"What?  Something  still  remains?  Something  you  have 
left  unexplained?    What  is  it?    You  have  announced  the 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  281 


play — and  allotted  the  parts.  Yeu  have  arranged  for  the 
production  of  a  Great  Marriage,  with  a  wealthy  husband — a 
poor  lover,  who  is  to  share  in  the  spoil — a  convenient  cousin 
who  is  to  make  things  easy — a  father  who  is  only  too  ready  to 
give  his  blessing — an  admiring  World  !  Surely  that's  enough? 
And  if  the  *poor  lover'  finds  it  impossible  to  accept  the 
engagement,  what  does  it  matter?  Such  a  role  as  that  which 
you  wished  to  assign  to  him  will  not  go  begging.  You  can  fill 
it  at  any  moment." 

Miles  !  How  can  you  be  so  cruel?  Don't  you  love  me 
— any  more  ?  " 

A  faint  tinge  of  colour  rose  to  Bering's  face  and  his  eyes 
flashed  ominously. 

"  I  don't  think  we  need  discuss  my  feelings — now^^^  he 
said  sternly.  "  The  important  point  is  that  you  cannot  stay 
here  any  longer.  You  were  going  to  some  ball — ?  "  Suddenly 
he  remembered  words  spoken  carelessly  by  an  acquaintance 
— the  day  before.  "  There  is  a  ball  at  the  Villa  Platoff  to-night 
— you  are  going  there  ?  " 

"I  was." 

Hot  tears  were  coursing  down  the  girl's  cheeks  :  she  had 
abandoned  all  attempt  at  self-control.  "  I  was — but  of  course 
I  cannot  go — now." 

Why  ?  Traces  of  emotion  only  make  you  more  beautiful 
than  usual  and  besides — you  must  go.  You  have  been  bought 
and  a  bargain  is  a  bargain.  Part  of  the  price  paid  is  here — I 
think."  He  lightly  touched  the  great  pearls  at  her  throat  and 
she  cried  out  in  sudden  terror.    He  smiled  slightly. 

You  need  not  be  afraid — I'm  not  going  to  hurt  you.  You 
belong  to  another  man.  He  has  paid  a  price  for  you  that  I 
could  never  have  afforded — there  you  were  right." 

You  hate  me — now  ?  " 
He  looked  at  her  steadily — no  quiver  of  emotion  giving 
life  to  his  frozen  features. 

No,  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  know  you  and — it  sounds 
very  rude — 1  want  you  to  go.    I  don't  belong  to  your  world 


282  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


and  I  possess  feelings  that  are  not  always  under  control.  You 
have  murdered  the  thing  that  was  dearest  to  me  in  all  the 
world,  and  if  I  let  myself  go — I  might  injure  you.  Believe  me 
you  had  much  better  go  to  your  ball — at  once." 

But  I  cannot !  Of  course  I  am  not  going — now,  and  I 
cannot  leave  you  like  this.  You  are  thinking  such  cruel  things 
of  me — you  are  judging  me  so  harshly — " 

Harshly!"  The  pent-up  emotion  broke  loose  and 
shook  him  from  head  to  foot.  "  You  think  I  am  harsh 
because  I  tell  you  that  I  cannot  bear  to  be  in  the  presence  of  one 
who  has  murdered  my  Ideal — killed  my  fondest  hopes,  blotted 
the  sun  out  of  my  life,  wounded  to  death  my  belief  in  good- 
ness and  purity  and  love  and  self-respect.  What  do  you 
expect  from  me — you  who  have  been  cherished  in  my  heart  ? 
You  who  have  been  in  my  thoughts  night  and  day?  For 
whom  I  have  worked  and  planned  and  dreamed  ?  You  who 
were  my  idol — almost  I  think  my  God?  Do  you  know  that 
only  last  night  I  said  I  believed  you  to  be  as  pure  and  lovely 
of  spirit  as  my  mother  ?  You — who  are  more  degraded  than 
the  lowest  of  the  fallen  sisters,  for  you  are  selling  yourself  for 
mere  luxury  while  they  sell  body  to  keep  body  alive.  You 
think  I  am  harsh  but  what  do  you  deserve  at  my  hands  ? 
You — who  would  have  dragged  me  down  to  your  level — who 
would  have  prostituted  my  love  for  you  !  Did  you  think  I 
was  such  another  man  as  Comte  Henri  de  Brissac  ?  Did  you 
think  that  /  would  really  have  been  willing  to  share  you  with 
Prince  Platoff — ever — in  any  circumstances  ?  Do  you  know 
me  at  all  ?  Or  have  you  been  as  much  mistaken  in  me  as  I 
have  in  you  ?  You  came  to  me  with  ready-made  plans  for  the 
future — in  which  I  was  to  fill  the  role  of  lover  to  Princess 
Platoff,  but  did  you  never  realize — do  you  realize  now  that  if 
I  once  took  possession  of  you  I  wouldn^t  hesitate  to  kill  you 
before  I  allowed  another  man  to  so  much  as  touch  you? 
Did  you  really  suppose  that  even  you  could  tempt  me  to 
become  the  lover  of  a  woman  who  had  deliberately  sold  her- 
self to  Prince  Platoff.    You  must  indeed  have  been  mistaken 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  283 


in  me — but  it  was  not  my  fault.  I  warned  you.  I  told  you 
many  times  that  I  did  not  belong  to  your  World." 

"  You  belong  to  a  world  that  is  harsh  and  unrelenting — 
that  makes  impossible  laws  and  then  despises  those  who 
cannot  keep  them.  *  Right'  and  *  Wrong'  have  not  the 
same  meaning  for  everyone.?  We  are  not  all  made  alike 
— why  should  we  all  be  expected  to  think  alike  ?  And  who 
made  you  a  judge  over  the  thoughts  and  actions  of,  what 
you  call,  my  World?" 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  he  saw  that  the  quivering 
mouth,  with  its  pathetic  curves  and  crimson  glory,  was 
at  war  with  the  defiant  eyes  —  that  in  those  wonderful 
eyes  there  was  a  strange  light — a  flame  of  insanity.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  Doyenbert's  words,  "  She  is  rapidly  becoming 
a  slave  to  the  Green  Fairy — she  is  said  to  be  one  of  the 
elect." 

Could  it  be  true? 

He  felt  suffocated.  The  horror  of  the  whole  thing 
seemed  to  make  it  impossible  for  him  to  breathe. 

"You  cannot  stay  here  any  longer,"  he  said  brusquely. 
"You  must  go.  Have  you  a  carriage  waiting — are  you 
going  straight  to  the  Villa  Platoff?" 

"  Yes — there  is  a  carriage.  I  am  going  back  to  the 
Bristol." 

In  silence  he  touched  a  gong  and  fetched  her  wrap. 

"Chu  will  direct  the  coachman,"  he  said:  then  he 
stopped.  He  felt  it  almost  impossible  to  leash  his  emotions 
another  second  but  race  asserted  itself. 

"I  will  take  you  to  your  carriage,"  he  said,  as  he  held 
open  the  door. 

Violet  looked  up  at  him  and  hesitated.  She  tried  to 
speak  but  her  nerves  played  her  false  and  she  was  again 
trembling  violently. 

"  You  wish  me  to  go — like  this  ?  " 

Bering  bent  his  head  in  assent  but  no  word  passed 
his  compressed  lips. 


284  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


His  voice  was  even  and  his  look  almost  tranquil  as 
he  shut  the  carriage  door  and  directed  the  coachman,  but 
his  face  was  white  v;ith  suppressed  emotion  as  he  walked 
quickly  up  the  long  corridor  and  re-entered  the  studio. 
Just  as  he  reached  the  door  his  sister  looked  out 
of  her  sitting-room :  she  was  standing  in  shadow  and 
if  he  saw  her  he  paid  no  heed.  She  was  horrified  at  his 
appearance  but  there  was  no  time  for  explanation — even 
if  he  had  been  in  the  mood  to  give  one.  The  key  turned 
in  the  lock  of  the  great  door  and  she  was  shut  out. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE  hours  crept  by  with  leaden  feet. 
Seduced  by  the  shadows  of  night  they  lingered  and 
paused.     Their  passing  seemed  interminable  but  Bering 
was  unconscious  of  their  presence. 

On  returning  to  the  studio,  his  brain  aflame  with  excite- 
ment, he  had  thrown  himself  into  a  chair  by  one  of  the 
great  round  tables,  his  arms  stretched  out  to  support 
his  bowed  head. 

And  there  was  silence.  The  room  seemed  as  the 
resting-place  of  the  dead. 

A  storm  of  fury  raged  within  the  motionless  figure. 
Hate — bitter  contempt — absolute  loathing,  took  possession 
of  him  by  turns  and  then  in  one  demoniac  band.  In  that 
hour  Bering  learned  the  truth  of  the  words — "  Hell  has 
no  rage  like  love  to  hatred  turned,"  for  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  hated  Violet  Hilliard  as  passionately  as  he  had 
loved  her :  almost  as  fiercely  as  he  hated,  and  most  bitterly 
envied,  Platoff.  And  in  that  envy,  thrust  aside  but  none 
the  less  realized,  lay  the  crown  of  thorns  which  pressed 
into  his  flesh  until  the  agony  became  intolerable. 

He  had  put  Violet  aside  with  insulting  words :  he  had 
driven  her  away  from  his  door  but  he  longed  for  her 
with  all  his  strength. 

She  had  laid  in  the  dust  his  cherished  Ideal — she  had 
thrown  down  his  Idol  and  defaced  it  past  recognition,  but 
she  was  the  woman  he  desired  above  all  other  living 
creatures.  And  because  of  the  passionate  wild  desire 
that  was  devastating  his  whole  being  he  determined — in 
those  first  awful  moments  —  to  kill  her  rather  than  let 
her  come  into  the  possession  of  any  other  man. 

285 


286  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


Gabrielle  Borizoff  had  spoken  but  the  truth  when 
she  said  that  Bering  was  in  many  respects  "primeval." 
He  had  in  him,  vigorous  and  full  of  health,  the  germs  of 
the  uncivilized  man  who  holds  his  own  against  all  comers, 
without  regard  to  law,  except  the  law  of  possession.  He 
would  himself  have  been  the  first  to  say  that  love  sanctified 
everything — almost. 

But  not  that! 

Not  that  horrible  thing  that  she  had  suggested. 

The  bare  idea  of  her  marriage  with  PlatofT  brought 
with  it  such  horror  that  he  felt  he  had  entered  into  the 
region  of  madness. 

The  height  and  depth  of  his  disappointment  absolutely 
unmanned  him.  His  heaven  had  been  in  his  arms.  Not 
all  the  gold  in  the  world  could  have  bought  from  him  one 
of  those  seconds  of  perfect  bliss.  He  had  reached  the 
heights  of  delirious  happiness  and  then  he  had  been 
thrust  out— by  her  little  white  hand — into  darkness  that 
imaged  the  horrors  of  hell.  And  it  was  she  who  had  done 
it.  Deliberately:  with  intention.  The  cruelty  lay  in 
that.  She  had  come  to  him — straight  into  his  longing 
arms — with  the  story  all  arranged.  She  had  thought  it 
out  carefully.    She  had  laid  her  plans. 

It  seemed  incredible.  Unbelievable. 

A  creature  so  exquisite — little  more  than  a  girl? 

And  she  loved  him ;  of  that  he  felt  certain. 

She  loved  him  and  yet  she  was  willing  to  sacrifice 
herself  and  him  for  a  few  ropes  of  world-famous  pearls : 
for  a  few  sacks  of  golden  coins? 

She  was  not  wanting  in  intelligence.  He  knew  she 
must  have  realized  that  before  he  could  have  agreed 
to  her  suggestion  all  that  was  best  in  him  must  have 
been  trampled  to  death  under  the  restless  feet  of 
passion. 

He  raised  his  head  wearily  and  rested  it  on  one  hand. 
He  was  trying  to  hold  himself  away  from  the  insidious 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  287 


snares  of  madness.  His  brain  was  still  on  fire  but  his 
thoughts  were  slowly  clearing. 

As  in  a  dream  within  a  dream  he  looked  back  on  the 
days — how  long  ago  they  seemed,  when  he  had  believed 
he  understood  her  character  perfectly.  When  he  would 
have  staked  his  life  on  the  certainty  that  he  had  read 
her  aright.  And  then  upon  the  palimpsest  of  his  brain 
certain  words  appeared  —  Dear  old  fellow  —  you  are 
wonderful !  But  beware  of  the  pride  of  intuition,  for  it 
may  lead  you  far  astray  one  of  these  days."  Words  which 
had  been  spoken,  in  the  old  flat  in  Paris,  by  a  man  he 
liked  well — Anthony  Gray,  who  since  those  days  had 
become  a  shining  light  in  the  Anglican  Church !  He 
almost  smiled  as  he  remembered  the  handsome  face  of 
the  young  man  who,  even  then,  was  always  spoken  of  as 
'*a  fanatic."  Gray  had  been,  was  still,  one  of  his  most 
valued  friends  but  they  had  often  disagreed  on  vital  points. 
And  the  Priest  had  distrusted  the  peculiar  quality  on 
which  the  painter  placed  implicit  reliance  —  intuitive 
judgment  of  character. 

Bering  rose  abruptly  and  pushed  aside  his  chair.  For 
a  moment  he  stood  still  and  looked  round  his  studio  as 
though  questioning  it.  Then  he  went  to  the  open  window 
where  he  had  waited" — through  the  long  hours  of  a 
dragging  day. 

He  leaned  out  and  welcomed  the  chill  of  the  still  night 

air. 

The  cypress  shadows  in  the  garden  down  below  were 
black  and  gaunt  but,  far  away — in  the  bosom  of  the  East 
— there  was  already  a  thread  of  pale  gold  ! 

It  was  the  moment  of  earliest  dawn  and  something 
of  calm  stole  over  him  as  the  wonder-thread  expanded  and 
became  suffused  with  pale  rose.  He  leaned  out  and  peered 
into  the  mysteries  of  the  shadowy  garden,  and  as  he  did 
so  the  faint  note  of  a  far-away  bird  floated  in  on  the  chill 
air.    He  listened  intently  and  the  note  grew  fainter  and 


288  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


fainter.  But  from  out  the  shadows  of  the  garden  a  glow 
of  crimson  Light  seemed  to  seek  him.  Nearer  and  nearer 
it  came — until  he  fancied  he  could  touch  it !  And  then 
the  Light  took  form  and — close  to  his  hand — he  thought 
he  saw  a  glorious  rose — blood-red  and  fragrant  with  sweetest 
perfume ! 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  it  as  he  unconsciously 
sank  back  into  a  chair. 
• 

When  memory  returned  the  East  was  filled  with  streaks 
of  gold  and  rose  and  mystic  blue. 

With  a  weary  gesture  he  turned  from  the  window  and 
approached  one  of  the  tables  on  which  papers  and  loose 
sketches  were  piled  in  careless  confusion.  He  was  conscious 
that  he  was  looking  for  something.  For  a  minute  or  two 
he  turned  the  papers  over  and  over.  Then  he  stopped. 
He  had  found  the  little  rough  sketches  of  a  girl's  hands — 
the  delicious  hands  that  Doyenbert  had  described  as 
"the  mother  type.'' 

He  knelt  beside  the  table  and  drew  the  sketches  to  him. 
With  eager  eyes  he  devoured  each  line — each  dainty,  helpless 
curve.  Burning  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes  and  fell — one 
by  one — on  the  white  paper.  The  agony  of  the  moment 
seemed  more  than  he  could  bear. 

Then,  as  though  in  answer  to  some  silent  protest  of 
the  eloquent  curves,  he  laid  his  arm  tenderly  over  the 
sketches. 

He  was  alone  —  absolutely  alone,  but  it  seemed  a 
sacrilege  to  look  at  those  hands  while  his  thoughts  were 
wandering —  Ah,  God  !  Where  were  they  not  wandering  ? 
What  fond  hopes  had  been  built  upon  the  possibilities 
of  that  sacred     mother  type"? 

The  "  Irish  "  in  him  made  itself  felt — strongly.  A  tinge 
of  colour  stained  the  bronzed  face  and  he  hastily  put  the 
sketches  together  and  hid  them  away  in  a  big  leather 
case.     He    was   alone   but  that  unaccountable,  baffling 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  289 


shyness  which  is  the  birthright  of  the  Celt,  held  him  in 
thrall.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  betrayed  a  secret ! 
A  secret  of  his  own  heart — but  none  the  less  a  con- 
fidence. 

He  went  slowly  back  to  his  favourite  window  and 
watched  the  shadows  of  Night  giving  place  to  approaching 
Day.  The  morning  air  was  chill  but  there  was  fever  in 
his  veins  and  he  welcomed  the  breeze  that  came  to  him 
across  the  heads  of  the  stately  cypress  sentinels.  The 
echo  of  the  nightingale's  dying  note — the  vision  of  the 
blood-red  rose — these  had  brought  him  something  of  peace. 
His  brain  was  still  confused  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
war  of  Night  and  Day,  at  which  he  had  looked,  was 
symbolic. 

With  him  it  was  still  night  but  he  was  becoming  con- 
scious that  somewhere  there  was  day — even  for  him.  Even, 
though  it  seemed  so  cruelly  impossible,  for  him,  wiih 
her. 

He  found  himself  trying  to  reconstruct  the  possible 
story  of  her  childhood — of  the  days  when  she  had  un- 
consciously crossed  the  mystic  stream  which  divides  the 
land  of  quickening  buds  from  that  of  breaking  blossoms. 

He  tried  to  picture  her  at  the  moment  when  her  beauty 
was  dawning — when  it  was  but  a  narrow  thread  of  golden 
promise  hke  that  which  he  had  just  seen  widen  in  the 
eastern  sky. 

She  must  have  been  exquisite — always.    And  wilful ! 
And,  beyond  all  living  things,  lovable ! 
He  thought  of  her  childhood  :  of  her  early  impressions — 
of  her  certain  temptations. 
The  teachings  of  her  father  ? 

The  mere  thought  of  Weston  Hilliard — as  her  father — 
filled  him  with  fury.    The  man  whose  name  was  a  byword 

over  Europe — who  would  assuredly  have  sold  his  own 
wife  if  the  price  had  been  high  enough  and  if  he  had  seen 
his  way  to  the  invention  of  a  suitable  "explanation ' 
19 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


On  one  side  Weston  Hilliard, 
On  the  other—''  Aunt  Rachel." 

And  though  Bering  appreciated,  and  in  a  sense  liked, 
his  sister's  austere  friend  he  understood  very  well  what 
her  constant  companionship  must  have  meant  to 
Violet. 

And  then  the  Comtesse  de  Brissac  and — the  World. 

He  had  never  entered  Madame  de  Brissac's  suite  of  rooms 
at  the  Bristol;  but  he  understood  her  position  only  too 
well. 

The  story  of  the  menage  was  an  open  secret  in  Rome  as 
well  as  in  Paris. 

Violet  had  hardly  ever  spoken  to  him  of  her  life  before 
this  visit  to  Rome,  but  he  was  able  to  piece  together  little 
things  she  had  said  from  time  to  time.  He  knew  she  was 
proud  and  intensely  sensitive ;  he  felt  that  she  must  have 
suffered  very  often,  and  in  silence 

And  then,  with  determination,  he  dragged  his  unwilling 
thoughts  towards  the  subject  of — what  Doyenbert  had  called 
—the  ''Green  Fairy.'^ 

The  idea  was  horrible  but  he  forced  himself  to  look  at 
possible  facts  justly.  That  the  girl  had  already  become  "a 
slave"  to  absinthe  he  refused  to  believe,  but — it  was  quite 
possible  that  she  had  acquired  a  taste  for  the  insidious  stuff. 
It  was  even  probable  that  she  had  found  comfort  in  it  at  some 
moment  of  difficulty. 

In  Paris  he  had  seen  much  of  the  effects  of  absinthe.  He 
understood  what  had  been  implied  when  the  Russian  Prince 
told  Doyenbert  that  Violet  was  "  one  of  the  elect."  Given  her 
fervent,  excitable  temperament  the  accursed  " Green  Fairy" 
might  indeed  work  wonders.  The  thought  of  it — of  the 
possibilities  that  lay  behind  it — acted  as  a  flaming  torch  flung 
upon  the  smouldering  fragments  of  his  fierce  anger.  He  felt 
his  hard-won  control  slipping  away,  and  to  recover  it  he  turned 
from  the  window,  crossed  the  room  and  lightly  touched  a 
little  gong  which  stood  on  a  table  near  the  door.    It  was  still 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  291 


early  but  he  knew  the  faithful  Chu  would  be  awaiting  his 
call. 

A  moment  later  a  motionless  figure  in  dark  blue  stood  in 
the  doorway.  The  boy,  little  more  than  a  child,  had  passed 
the  night  in  the  throes  of  pitiful  anxiety  but  his  yellow  face 
betrayed  no  sign  of  emotion.  In  silence  he  awaited  his 
master's  orders  and  then  vanished. 

Bering  looked  after  him  as  he  glided  down  the  long 
corridor  and  something  like  a  smile  hovered  round  his  com- 
pressed lips.  Chu's  devotion  was  wonderful  and,  just  then, 
very  welcome. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  boy  returned,  carrying  in  his  hands 
a  tray  containing  the  petit  dejeitner-,  coffee  and  rolls  and — 
Bering  found  himself  wondering  where  they  had  come  from 
— a  little  silver  dish  piled  up  with  wild  strawberries. 

Chu  stood  still  a  second,  waiting  fresh  orders,  but  since 
none  came  he  glided  out,  to  return  immediately  with  a  single 
white  rose  in  a  slender  vase.  He  placed  the  flower  on  the 
table  close  to  where  his  master  was  sitting  and  turned  to  go. 
But  before  he  could  reach  the  door  it  opened  suddenly  and 
Jessica  Bering  came  in. 

Miles  There  was  amazement  in  the  voice  and  some- 
thing of  terror.  "Miss  Hilliard  is  here.  She  wants  to  see 
you." 

"Miss  Hilliard?  She  has  arrived  from  Florence — 
already  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no — no.    It's  Violet  Hilliard — the  niece.'' 
"  Here  ?  " 

Bering  thought  his  sister  had  gone  suddenly  mad,  but  his 
face  flushed  as  he  glanced  past  her  and  saw  a  tall  figure 
standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  come  in?  I  am  going  to  join  my 
aunt  in  Florence  to-day  but  there  is  something  I  wish  to  say 
to  you  before  I  go." 

The  words  were  spoken  in  an  even  voice,  free  from 
emotion    of   any  kind.     Bering   just  waited  to  glance 


292  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


at  the  set  white  face,  and  then  he  came  to  the  girFs 
side. 

^*0f  course — if  I  can  be  of  any  service?'' 

Violet  bowed  her  head  in  assent,  and  as  Bering  indicated 
a  chair  to  his  visitor  his  sister  quietly  slipped  out  of  the  room 
and  shut  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XX 


IN  silence  Bering  crossed  the  room  and  shut  the  window. 
Then  he  threw  some  pine  logs  on  the  fire  and  came 
back  to  the  table. 

"You  are  leaving  Rome  to-day? "  he  asked  quietly. 
"Yes." 

The  girl  was  sitting  in  a  big  arm-chair  but  she  was  not 
leaning  back.  On  the  contrary  she  was  sitting  in  a  strained, 
upright  position,  her  ungloved  hands  tightly  clasped  on  her 
lap.  She  was  very  pale  and  her  haunting  eyes  seemed  set  in 
dusky  frames,  for  emotion,  or  fatigue,  had  darkened  her  heavy 
white  lids.  She  was  still  lovely  but  she  was  changed.  So 
greatly  changed  that  Dering  felt  he  might  almost  have  passed 
her  in  the  street,  unrecognized,  had  he  met  her  unexpectedly. 
There  was  about  her  whole  person  a  subtle  atmosphere  of 
aloofness :  she  gave  the  impression  of  being  in  the  world  but 
not  of  it.  She  was  neither  at  ease  nor  ill  at  ease,  she  was 
simply  a  thing  apart. 

In  the  palpitating  silence  Dering  watched  her  closely.  He 
was  amazed,  completely  mystified.  Why  had  she  come  to 
him — at  this  extraordinary  hour  ?  Of  what  was  she  thinking  ? 
What  was  she  going  to  say  ? 

After  that  first  question  he  waited.  And  she,  too,  waited 
in  silence  but  without  emotion.  Then  a  look  of  physical  pain 
stole  across  her  frozen  features  and  she  pressed  her  hand  to 
her  forehead. 

"  My  head  aches.    It  makes  me  stupid." 

Dering  gave  no  sign  of  concern,  other  than  that  of  a 
polite  host,  but  he  poured  out  a  cup  of  coffee  and  placed 
it  near  her. 

293 


294  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


"  You  seem  very  tired, "  he  said.  "  This  will  do  you 
good." 

She  shook  her  head.  Then  the  necessity  for  strength 
prompted  her  to  accept  and  she  drank  it.  Again  there  was 
silence.  Bering  sat  motionless  as  a  bronze  statue  and  the 
girl  seemed  unable  to  frame  the  words  she  wanted  to 
speak.    At  last  she  said  : 

"There  is  something  I  want  to  say — will  you  listen, 
right  on  to  the  end?  I  don't  want  your  opinion — your 
ideas — your  praise  or  condemnation.  I  only  want  you  to 
listen." 

He  made  a  silent  sign  of  assent. 

She  drew  herself  up  as  though  making  a  strong  effort  to 
retain  self-control,  and  once  more  she  pressed  her  hand  to 
her  forehead.  Then,  with  a  little  impatient  gesture  she 
drew  the  long  pins  from  her  fur  cap  and  took  it  off.  With 
a  clever,  very  personal,  movement  of  her  slender  fingers 
she  ruffled  up  the  waves  of  pale  gold  hair. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  i\unt  Rachel — to-day.  She  will 
expect  me.    I  have  telegraphed." 

She  stopped  short  and,  for  the  first  time,  looked  at  him. 
Their  eyes  met  but  Bering's  expressed  nothing  more  than 
the  obligatory,  perfunctory  interest  of  a  man  who  is  listening 
to  a  woman's  words.  His  apparent  lack  of  interest  gave 
her  courage.  His  mood  marched  in  line  with  hers.  For 
a  moment  she  scanned  his  face  and  then  she  looked  down. 

have  one  favour  to  ask  of  you — only  one.  You 
must  believe  that  I  would  never  have  come  here,  this 
morning,  if  I  had  not  realized  that  everything  is  ended — 
absolutely,  definitely.  You  think  very  badly  of  me  but  you 
may  believe  me — this  once.  I  mean  what  I  say." 
I  do  not  doubt  it." 

**But  you  might  easily  doubt — almost  anyone  would. 
What  I  am  doing  is  extraordinary — I  know  it.  Anyone, 
almost,  would  think  I  had  come  here  to  ask — for  your  pity 
or  for — something  of  that  sort,  but  it's  not  true.    I  have 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


not  come  here  for  that.  The  bare  idea  of  such  a  thing 
is  horrible." 

The  underlying  excitement  which  had  been  so  deter- 
minedly driven  back  was  forcing  itself  to  the  front  and  her 
voice  was  harsh.  She  seemed  on  the  verge  of  an  outburst 
of  hysterical  weeping  but  the  expression  on  Bering's  face 
checked  it.  He  was  looking  at  her  quite  calmly  and  his 
voice  betrayed  no  emotion. 

^'I'm  convinced  you  have  not  come  here  to  ask  for  my 
*pity'  and  I  agree  with  you  that  the  bare  idea  of  such  a 
thing  is  *  horrible.' " 

"You  understand  that  I  have  come  here — because  I 
had  to  speak  to  you  before  I  left  Rome  ?  " 

"  I  understand." 

She  clasped  her  hands  together  tightly  and  stared  into 
the  heart  of  the  flaming  pine  logs  in  the  open  grate. 

**What  you  said  to  me — of  me — last  night  was  quite 
true  but  you  didn't  know  all  the  truth.  That's  why  I  am 
here.  I  want  you  to  know  everything — I've  done  with 
pretences — I've  had  more  than  enough  of  them,  and  of 
indecision.  Ever  since  I  can  remember  I've  been  unable 
to  decide  whether  I  wanted  to  be  good  or  bad.  I  don't 
know  now — I  only  know  that  I  mean  to  speak  the  truth  to 
you,  and  to  Aunt  Rachel.  I  shall  never  see  you  again 
after  to-day,  and  I  may — I  don't  know — live  with  her  all 
the  rest  of  my  life,  but  I'm  determined  that  you  and  she 
shall  know  me  as  I  am.  You  despise  money,  Aunt  Rachel 
does  too  —  in  a  way  —  but  all  ray  life  I've  seen  that  a 
woman  had  no  chance  if  she  has  not  plenty  of  it.  It's  easy 
— at  least  I  suppose  so — for  you  to  do  without  it  because 
your  ambitions  and  ideals  make  it  possible  for  you  to  despise 
the  World  but  my  ambition  has  always  been  to  lead  and 
to  rule.  I  have  always  felt  that  the  only  thing  worth  living 
for  is  the  power  to  meet  insolence  with  insolence — the 
power  to  make  people  afraid.  And  only  money  can  do 
that — or  what  money  buys.    I  don't  want  to  excuse  any- 


296  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


thing  IVe  said  or  done — I'm  long  beyond  that.  What  you 
think  of  me  does  not  matter — now.  But  if  you  had  been 
in  my  place,  if  you  had  suffered  the  humiliations  I  have 
suffered,  you  would  understand — at  least  I  think  you  would 
but  Fm  not  sure.  You  are  not  like  anyone  else.  When  I 
lived  with  my  father  it  was  horrible — more  horrible  than 
you  could  imagine,  for  everyone  knew  him  and  everyone 
avoided  him  except  the  young  men  he  fooled  and  the  old 
men  who  admired  me.  And  he  tried  to  make  me  useful 
— it  was  the  only  value  I  had  in  his  eyes.  And  before  that 
there  was  Aunt  Rachel."  She  stopped  short  and  pressed 
her  hands  to  her  eyes.  Physical  weakness  was  fighting 
for  the  mastery  and  it  was  with  difficulty  she  kept  her  voice 
from  trembling.  Aunt  Rachel  and  the  *  poor  dears ' ! 
They  were  so  good  to  me  but — Oh,  it  was  so  dull.  I  have 
told  you  the  truth — I  never  could  decide  what  I  wanted 
to  do  with  my  life — I  hadn't  the  courage  to  be  really  good 
or  wholly  bad.  I  wanted  the  world  and  I  wanted  the  *poor 
dears '  and  then — you  came.  And  you  made  it  so  difficult. 
And  then  I  thought  I  saw  a  way  out — a  real  way,  and  I 
wanted  to  take  it."  She  stopped  again  and  looked  him 
straight  in  the  face.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something 
that  will  shock  you  very  much.  You  already  think  me 
horrible  and  degraded  but  there  is  something  you  don't 
know — " 

She  seemed  choked  with  emotion  and  for  a  moment 
she  leaned  back  against  the  cushions  and  shut  her 
eyes. 

Bering  held  his  breath.  For  the  first  time — for  a  single 
second — the  insidious  tentacles  of  suspicion  closed  about 
his  heart. 

What  was  she  going  to  say  ? 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  wearily.  She  was  passing 
quickly  through  many  phases  of  fatigue.  The  momentary 
excitement  had  died  away,  leaving  her  desperately  tired. 
She  returned  to  her  old  position  in  the  chair :  sitting  up- 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


right,  with  clasped  hands  and  eyes  turned  on  the  flames 
in  the  grate. 

After  all  it's  not  so  important.  It  cannot  matter  to 
you  one  way  or  the  other,  but  I've  learned  to  like  absinthe. 
At  least  I've  learned  to  depend  on  it — for  many  things. 
You  once  said  you  would  never  let  me  taste  it — you 
remember?  Well,  I  had  already  tasted  it  the7i,  I  already 
knew  its  power.  You  will  think  it  horrible  but  to  me  it 
was  wonderful.  Even  from  the  first  it  made  everything 
seem  different.  It  made  me  feel  I  really  had  in  my 
possession  all  the  lovely  things  I  wanted.  It  made  me 
feel  I  was  as  much  admired  and  feared  as  Princess  Borizoff 
— that  I  had  even  greater  power  than  she  had.  But  it  was 
not  always  the  same — the  effect  I  mean."  She  looked  at 
him  steadily  and  her  eyes  were  defiant  though  her  mouth 
was  quivering.      Last  night  I  had  taken  it  but — " 

Bering  made  a  sudden  movement,  and  she  saw  his  eyes. 
With  a  little  cry  she  threw  out  her  hands.  '^Oh,  no — no^ 
don't  think  that — don't  try  to  find  an  excuse  for  me.  I  had 
intended  to  say — what  I  said — before  I  took  it.  I  had 
thought  it  all  out,  only — I  don't  think  I  should  have  had  the 
courage  to  speak  without  it.  I  meant  what  I  said — I  meant 
it,  even  though  I  knew  about  Muriel." 

And  now  ?  What  do  you  mean  now  ?  " 
I  ?  Only  that  everything  is  at  an  end — everything. 
There  was  a  dreadful  scene  last  night — when  I  went  back  to 
the  hotel.  Muriel  was  there — and  my  father.  They  said 
such  cruel  things — about  you — about  everything.  And  I 
said  things  to  them  that  can  never  be  forgotten.  The  whole 
thing  was  frightful,  and  I  could  never  again  live  with  either 
Muriel  or  my  father,  even  if  they  wanted  me.  I've  made  a 
mess  of  my  life  and  I've  made  up  my  mind,  absolutely,  to 
go  back  to  Aunt  Rachel  and  to  stay  with  her — if  she  will 
have  me.  Just  now,  I  can't  think :  my  brain  seems  on  fire, 
but  later  on — there  will  be  time  to  settle  what  I  am  to  do." 

**And  Prince  Platofif?" 


298  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


A  rush  of  painful  colour  stained  her  face. 

I  have  told  you  that  everything  is  at  an  end." 
**  You  have  seen  him  ?  " 

"  No.  I  have  written.  I  have  the  letter  here.  I  want 
you — to  send  it — if  you  will  ?  I  was  afraid  to  trust  it  to — 
the  people  at  the  hotel,  and  the  post  seemed  so  long." 
She  did  not  look  at  him  as  she  put  a  letter  and  a  small 
parcel  on  the  table.  Please  send  it — and  the  parcel — 
this  morning.  The  parcel  is  valuable — the  pearls  are  in 
it/' 

He  bent  his  head  in  silence.  There  was  within  him  such 
a  clamour  of  glad  music  that  it  seemed  as  though  a  heavenly 
host  had  descended  to  rejoice  before  the  gates  of  his  heart. 
He  had  drawn  his  chair  closer  to  hers,  and  as  his  right  arm 
stole  forward  over  the  cushions  she  was  encircled. 

"  And  so  *  everything  '  is  at  an  end  ?  Everything — except 
your  love  for  me? " 

She  looked  up  suddenly.  Her  eyes  were  miserable  but 
defiant.  Before  she  could  speak,  he  caught  her  hands  and 
held  them  tight. 

"  You  have  said  that  you  came  here  this  morning  to  speak 
the  truth,  and  there's  only  one  truth  I  care  to  hear.  Tell  me 
— do  you  love  me?  " 

Burning  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  fell — one  by  one. 
She  was  trembling,  but  her  voice  was  firm. 

"Yes.  And  that's  what  makes  it  all  impossible — why 
Tm  going  away — at  once." 

"  Because  you  love  me  ?  " 

**Yes." 

Her  tears  were  falling  fast,  and  she  made  no  attempt  to 
brush  them  aside.  Because  of  the  tumult  of  rapture  in  his 
heart  Bering  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  the  strong 
arms  drew  her  closer  and  closer.  She  struggled  against  them, 
and  her  face  grew  very  white. 

"  No !  Please  let  me  go.  I  know  Tm  right.  IVe  seen 
myself  as  I  really  am — I  understand  everything  noiv.  This 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


morning  while  I  was  waiting  for  the  sun  to  rise  I  had  time 
to  think,  and  I  realized  then  that  everything  is  really  at  an 
end.  IVe  made  a  mess  of  my  life,  and  I  must  take  the 
consequences.  Tm  not  what  you  supposed  me  to  be — I 
never  could  have  been  your  Ideal — it  was  all  a  mistake.  I 
saw  the  truth  last  night — and  this  morning.  I  couldn't  sleep, 
and  I  was  alone.  In  a  time  like  that  one  realizes  the  real 
truth." 

''You  were  watching  for  the  dawn — alone?  And  I — ?" 
He  tightened  his  grasp  on  her  hands  and  drew  her  towards 
him.  "Did  you  think  of  the  blood-red  rose — did  you  send 
it  to  me — at  Dawn?  When  you  were  alone?  When  you 
realized  that  '  everything '  was  at  an  end  ? 

The  broken  whisper  thrilled  her,  but  she  clung  to  her 
determination. 

"Please  don't  let  us  misunderstand  each  other  now — at 
the  last  moment.  What  is  done  cannot  be  undone.  You 
may  think  now  that  you  could  forget — but  you  could  not. 
Neither  could  I.  You  were  foolish  to  idealize  me,  but  you 
would  do  it.  I  told  you  so  often  what  I  was,  but  you 
wouldn't  believe,  and  now  the  end  has  come.  Everything  is 
over  and  done  with,  and — I  am  going —  " 

Everything  I  Every  little  thing,  except  that  you  love 
me  and  that  I  love  you.  Everything  but  our  love  is 
blotted  out  as  if  it  had  never  existed.  We  were  born  this 
morning — with  the  Dawn — you  and  I !  And  just  as  soon  as 
ever  things  can  be  arranged  we're  going  to  look  for  our 
Garden  of  Eden — in  Japan.  In  the  sunshine,  by  our  lotus 
lake !  You  remember  the  picture  of  the  girl  in  white  with 
the  flame  of  love-light  in  her  eyes  ?  You  remember  that  you 
said  it  was  not  a  good  likeness  ?  Well — I'm  going  to  prove 
to  you  that  it  was  the  best  portrait  ever  painted — I'm  going 
to  show  you  that  Lucci  wasn't  far  wrong  after  all  when  he 
called  me  '  A  Painter  of  Souls  ' !  "  He  laughed  softly  as  he 
laid  his  bronzed  cheek  against  hers — so  pale  and  wan.  "You 
confess  that  you've  made  rather  a  mess  of  your  life  so  far, 


300  A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS 


and  now  I  am  going  to  see  what  can  be  done  with  it — and 
with  you ! " 

*'But  you  don't  understand — you  won^t  understand.  I 
came  here  this  morning  because — " 

"Because  you  were  troubled  and  tired.  Because  you 
knew  that  this  was  your  home  and  that  here,  in  my  arms,  you 
would  be  safe.  Sweetheart — confess  !  Wasn't  it  as  natural 
to  you  to  come  to  me  when  you  were  in  trouble  as  it  would 
be  for  a  bird  to  seek  its  mate  in  springtime  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes — in  a  way,  but — you're  saying  all  this  because 
you're  sorry  for  me." 

Because  I'm  horribly  sorry  for  myself  and  for  all  the  worry 
you  have  given  me.  And  because  I  don't  mean  to  let  you  go 
— ever  again.  And  because — sweetheart  mine — because  I 
love  you  and  you  love  me  !  "  He  was  holding  her  close  to 
his  heart  but  he  did  not  kiss  her.  She  was  worn  out, 
completely  unnerved,  and  he  knew  it.  For  a  second  or  two 
he  held  her  in  a  soft  embrace  and  then  he  laughed  a  little. 

Aren't  you  starved — you  poor  little  girl?  And  aren't 
you  frozen  in  this  big  room,  so  far  away  from  the  fire  ?  Shall 
we  have  our  breakfast — over  there  in  a  comfy  corner — just  we 
two  ?    And  then  you  can  rest." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  drew  her  up.  She  seemed  dazed 
and  faint :  but  for  his  support  she  must  have  fallen. 

But  I  have  telegraphed  to  Aunt  Rachel — and  all  my 
trunks  are  at  the  door,  waiting  for  me  ?  " 

"At  the  door — nowl  But  that's  magnificent!  And  as 
for  Aunt  Rachel — she's  on  her  way  down  to  Rome.  She'll  be 
here,  in  this  house,  this  evening :  we  needn't  bother  about 
her  until  she  arrives." 

He  pushed  her  softly  into  a  big  chair  by  the  fire  and  rang 
the  bell. 

Chu  entered  and  received  some  orders,  but  when  the  door 
was  again  shut  Violet  stood  up  resolutely. 

"  Miles — this  is  madness :  you'll  regret  it  all  your  life. 
You're  making  a  terrible  mistake — indeed  you  are." 


A  PAINTER  OF  SOULS  301 


In  believing  that  you  iove  me  ?  " 
*'No!  But—" 
In  having  made  up  his  mind  that  weVe  going  to  spend 
our  honeymoon  in  Japan — and  that  you're  going  to  wear  a 
white  lace  frock  when  we  visit  that  particular  lotus  lake  ?  " 

"  Oh,  please — you  must  be  serious.  You'll  be  sorry — I 
know  it.  None  of  your  friends  like  me,  and  then — there's 
your  sister.    What  will  she  think?" 

Jessica?  But  what  has  she  to  do  with  us?  Later  on 
she  and  *  Aunt  Rachel '  can  fix  up  their  plans  for  keeping 
house  together  but  at  this  moment  you  needn't  think  about 
either  of  them.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  concentrate  your 
attention  on  me — and  on  your  breakfast !  " 
"  Miles—?  " 

But  the  final  feeble  protest  was  drowned  in  the  chink  cf 
cups  and  plates  as  Chu  entered  with  a  big  tray. 


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